


get the best of me

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bad Kink Negotiation, Bulimia, Character Death, Dirty Talk, Eating Disorders, F/F, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hate-Fucking, Humiliation, I am so sorry, Kink Negotiation, Love/Hate, M/M, Offscreen character death, Pain, Self-Acceptance, Self-Defense, Self-Denial, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing, accidental violence, fucked-up relationships, implied eating disorder, past louis death, situational violence, weird shit mate I dunno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: he dies suddenly and they mournthey don't do it well





	1. -

They both love him, which is the first problem, and the second problem is that only one can have him, in the sense that anyone can have anyone.

“You don’t own him, you know,” Zayn snarled at Liam once, during some shit house party that eventually ended with police presence. Liam was eight beers deep and he knew that Zayn had been slamming shots all night along with smoking up a couple of times, just weed tonight though.

“And nor do you,” Liam replied, tossing his empty bottle into the recycling bin before grabbing another beer. He laughed when he noticed that Zayn was frowning at him, and he continued laughing as he walked back into the lounge.

Liam and Louis got together for the first time, that night, and within three years, Louis was gone.

:

Liam runs into Zayn at the funeral, of course he does, because no one can avoid anyone at a funeral. But the first unexpected time he runs into Zayn is at the grocery, where they both blank each other, and the second unexpected time he runs into Zayn, they’re at the Apple store. Apple stores are big enough to offer adequate shopping room, but not quite big enough to allow acquaintances to avoid one another, which necessitates that Liam and Zayn interact.

Liam initiates the conversation, giving Zayn a small head-nod and a “How’sit?”

Zayn, standing near the Genius Bar looking very uncomfortable, shrugs. “Dunno. Good.”

“Good.” Liam nods. “That’s good.” 

And it is good, in theory, although Liam certainly hates Zayn and Zayn definitely hates Liam.

 

It doesn’t keep either of them from walking out of the store together, neither having purchased anything, or from Zayn following Liam onto the tube and getting off at the same stop Liam does. It’s not a vocalized thing, but it’s not entirely unwelcome that they end up together, and Liam can’t entirely help the small smile he adopts as Zayn follows him directly into his flat.

:

It’s not that they fuck all the time, it’s just that they fuck a lot.

And it’s not pretty or refined or even particularly enjoyable, but it feels—necessary, somehow. Neither one of them calls it “mourning,” because neither one of them really talks outside of vagueness, logistics, and muttered insults. It ends with many kinds of bruises—bruised egos, plus bruised necks and lips and torsos.

Liam eventually learns just how much pressure he can place on Zayn’s throat without having to worry he’ll face an involuntary manslaughter charge—and Zayn finds a penchant for biting him so hard he pops blood vessels.

If Liam regularly notices people’s responses to his erratic behavior, anymore, he might see looks of concern about the dark bite-marks all over his increasingly sallow, pale skin. But really he’s too disconnected to really give a shit, and for now that’s just fine.

He’s much too caught up in things, much too tied to his own complicated heartbeat whenever Zayn looks at him, with his battered bones and shattered voice. He’s constantly caught between wanting to kiss him and kill him, but probably too many people have already died.

So instead he turns to punishing him, leaving pretty palm-marks on Zayn’s sensitive skin. But sometimes, he’s not really sure who he’s punishing.

:

Liam tosses a grubby hand towel generally towards Zayn, who’s lounged out on the bed. Zayn already has a lit cigarette to his lips, and he’s naked like he doesn’t give a fuck. Liam’s starting to think that, maybe, Zayn truly doesn’t give a fuck.

He snatches away the cigarette and takes a self-loathing drag before stubbing it out in an empty coffee mug. “Don’t be a dick.”

Zayn snorts. “I’m the dick?” he asks, picking up the towel to wipe himself off.

Liam shrugs, dropping the half-smoked butt into the mug. “Just—don’t smoke in here.” He’s already half-dressed, wearing basketball shorts and the Adidas slip-ons that function as slippers for him lately.

“Fine.” Zayn sighs, leaning up onto one elbow. He scratches at the hair below his navel, eyes still dark, pupils still wide. “Got any food? I’m fucking starving.”

Then it’s Liam’s turn to snort. “I was never the cook. You know that.”

Zayn swings his legs over the side of the bed before moving to stand. “Funny. That’s not what I was asking.”

Liam shrugs, watching Zayn step back into his boxers and skinny jeans. “Okay.”

“Do you have, like. Anything to make a toastie, even?” he asks as he dips down to pick up his shirt.

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

Zayn shoves past him, heading into the kitchen, which isn’t particularly well-kept. The sink is full and the bin is full and all he really has in the cupboards is crap.

But he does have bread, and he has cheese, and he has beer.

So Liam leans on the counter to watch Zayn make four cheese toasties and crack open two beers, and he wills his brain to go silent.

:

Liam’s brain doesn’t do silent very well. Even as he spends two days almost entirely in bed— but not for any fun reasons, but because he can’t even really bring himself to do much more than piss and drink the weird crap whiskey that Louis preferred, the posh kind his restaurant always had, the kind his boss stocked and let staff drink freely. Louis wasn’t high enough up the totem-pole to do much more than take free drinks; as a line cook, he couldn’t really do much more than chop and prep and do the grunt work.

He did that until he couldn’t, until his lungs quit him, until it all metastasized in his blood and bones.

Louis refused to quit smoking, though, and he refused to engage Liam when he yelled at him for refusing. “It’s my one vice, babe, let me have it.”

“Not if I don’t get to have you,” Liam growled, storming across the room.

“You do have me!”

“Not for long.”

And that’s where Louis stormed off himself, leaving the apartment and slamming the door behind him.

:

Liam shows up to the build site a bit weak, given that he hasn’t really eaten enough for a couple days now. His supervisor moves him to foundation work without a cursory glance.

He tries to be grateful.

 

Later, he dusts off his Timberlands and his work jeans, trying to transition from construction to his business class without much success.

:

“Fuck,” Liam groans, fisting at Zayn’s hair as he sucks at Liam’s cock. “You’re good, you’re so good.”

Zayn doesn’t respond; instead he bears down, opening up his throat to take Liam in further.

 

After, he lights a cigarette.

:

And so it goes, until the one time Liam fucks Zayn’s face a little too hard and he gags, and his eyes water, and he looks like he’s crying.

“Whoa, babe, whoa,” he murmurs, backing off, backing out—until they’re not even touching anymore, until they’re on opposite sides of one bed. He knows Zayn didn’t safe-word out, but it feels like someone did, and Liam thinks maybe it was him.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t fine,” Liam snaps, resisting the urge to lunge forward and thumb away the moisture from Zayn’s sharp-boned cheek. He’s lost weight lately, because they both have, because unexpectedly and inexplicably Louis was the one who kept them both fed, despite the fact that in most other areas he was fairly irresponsible. Liam himself has just forgotten to eat, but he thinks that Zayn’s not eating on purpose, trying to prove something to himself and to the world and doing, as usual, a shit job.

Like, when Liam and Zayn met, Zayn had just left uni to prove to his parents that he could totally make it as a tattoo artist, and he yet he’s still working as a bartender going home late at the end of his shifts smelling like skunked beer. In his angrier moments, he’ll remind Liam that he at least has an apprenticeship right now, which is apparently better than working construction.

“Fuck you, all high and mighty, I’m putting myself through school.”

And what goes unsaid is _I let Louis have his chance first,_ and _culinary school and business school at the same time was no way to maintain a relationship_ and, finally, another _fuck you._

What goes unsaid is, _I still love him more than you even could._

:

And it’s not like they only fuck when Liam shows up to the shit pub Zayn works at, because he doesn’t even do it that often, though it’s a short tube ride from his flat and he could go plenty if he wanted.

He wants to, and he doesn’t, is really it. Looking at Zayn makes him think of Louis, which is both a comfort and curse, but he can’t fucking stop himself.

Looking at Zayn also feels like looking at a stranger, and that’s just another blow dealt to his heart.

:

 

The thing is, really, that Liam wants life and livelihood. He wants things to come to life around him, which should mean that he inspires growth and vitality in others.

And the other thing is, he knows that’s shit, because his fiancé just fucking died of lung cancer, and nothing will ever, ever make that okay.

 

:

They’re not, like, _dating,_ obviously, because they hate one another, but they sometimes get food before or after they fuck, and that’s probably the weirdest part of the whole ordeal. And it really is an ordeal, and Liam can tell because of the hollow feeling in his gut that’s definitely not due to his current or impending hunger.

And also they don’t really get food much, they honestly just get drunk together and have sex, but sometimes afterwards they get takeaway that Zayn insists on eating with his fingers before excusing himself to the loo, and Liam’s really starting to think it’s more than just him breaking the seal after having too much beer. He has no idea how to ask about why someone might puke voluntarily.

And if confronting Zayn means that Zayn will confront him in return, well, Liam’s fine with the way things are.

:

And Liam’s probably sort of fine until he’s not, just like Louis was sort of fine until he wasn’t.

It’s not that the anniversary of the diagnosis is coming up, really, it’s more that no one’s around him to actually fucking _talk_ about it.

He’s worried about getting laid off at work because he can’t concentrate proper, he’s worried that he’ll fail his classes because he can’t concentrate proper, and then Zayn keeps accusing him of not being attentive enough to his dick.

Liam outright laughs in his face, knowing that Zayn’s trying to bait him and make him yell.

He’s nothing if not occasionally indulgent.

His tone reaches a fairly unmanly scream, if he’s honest, about how _nothing is fine and nothing will ever be fine again,_ and for once, Zayn doesn’t argue.

All he does is collapse.

Liam is worried that Zayn’s having some sort of medical issue until he starts full-on sobbing, and then he worries for a different reason, like a mental breakdown, which—naturally, he’s been having one for ages now.

He does nothing, because he can do nothing, besides curl up against Zayn’s side and start to cry, too, if maybe not as loud.


	2. --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> creature comforts

CHAPTER 2: - -

His classes are proper difficult.

It doesn’t help that it was only ever Louis who reminded Liam that he’s smart and hardworking and generally very capable; and it doesn’t help that Zayn makes him feel very, very stupid about half the time. He has this way of shooting Liam sharp, cutting glances that speak volumes, that say things like, _what the fuck did he ever see in you?_

Zayn’s always had that way about him, about getting to the root of the things people hate about themselves, and it probably goes back to his desire to be right and to _prove prove prove._ If he’s focused on others’ missteps, he can’t be focused on his own.

Or something.

:

It’s not that they fuck constantly, but they do fuck a lot, really, and sometimes Liam wants to laugh because he thinks that Zayn is trying to prove he’s the better lay. And he’s really great in bed, to be fair, fucks like he was born to do it, with the face of a Greek statue and the cock of a Greek god. It’s just that Zayn is trying way too hard to prove that he doesn’t give a shit about anything at all.

Which actually makes Liam feel a little bit better about himself, a little less stupid, if Zayn is trying this hard to impress him. He’ll take what he can get right now, though, because he’s so tired that his whole body is starting to ache with it. He thinks his bones are turning to powder with no one around to notice. He’s holding his shoulders so tightly that they’re turning to rocks, with tension that he can’t massage away.

And Zayn refuses to even try to help, which is for the best because his hands are small and boney, delicate and breakable.

They’re both so breakable.

:

Both of them are breakable, but so are both of Zayn’s hands—which Liam reminds Zayn when he throws a punch towards Liam’s cheekbone one night, all because Liam called Zayn beautiful.

“You’re being ridiculous!” Liam yells, not even bothering to duck. He just backs away, and Zayn’s punch lands softly on his meaty collarbone.

“I’m not being ridiculous!” Zayn yells in response, fisting his hands in his hair, making it look fluffy and, again, ridiculous.

“Yes, you are! You can’t fight me, you moron! You’re coke-skinny and have no idea what you’re doing!”

“Oh, fine, well sorry we can’t all be beefed-up Magic Mike body doubles, all right? We can’t all be perfect specimens of masculinity and bravery in the face of tragedy, huh? Just a bastion of strength and fortitude? Bland and solid and good?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s what you think of me?” As in, _that’s it?_ Not even hatred, just dismissal and a caricature of Liam laid bare. And it hurts so much that he laughs as his bones keep turning to dust.

“I don’t think of you!”

“You’re such a shit, and such a liar!” Liam grinds out, his voice going low and gritty like it does whenever he’s mad. Louis used to make fun of him for it, imitating him as best he could with his high, reedy voice that Liam loved so much. That, too, was ridiculous, but in an endearing way, in a way that made Liam laugh his biggest laugh and go squint-eyed. Which Louis always said was his favourite face that Liam ever made. 

He lunges for Zayn and half of him wants to go for his neck, to wrap his, what, beefed-up hands around Zayn’s stupid throat so he can’t fucking talk anymore. But it seems like Zayn knows what he’s thinking, because he dives forward and elbows Liam in the gut and head-butts him in the sternum.

They grapple for a bit, and Zayn gets in a few surprising shots until Liam can hold his arms behind his back and sweep his legs, holding his weight up until he can dump him onto the bed. “You’re being stupid, so goddamn stupid!” he says as he drops Zayn face-down onto the sheets.

“How am I the stupid one here?” Zayn flips over and kicks out once, his foot connecting with Liam’s upper thigh.

“You just shoved your forehead into my solar plexus!” Liam counters, kneeling down on the bed to get into Zayn’s face, his torso hovering over Zayn’s.

“Oh, big strong man and his big strong vocabulary,” Zayn sneers, kneeing upwards so that he nearly hits Liam in the junk.

“What the fuck are you even saying right now, you absolute dick,” Liam growls, shoving Zayn’s shoulders down flat until they hit the sheet and he can finally latch on to his neck, biting down with force.

He’s got his tongue lathing on the junction between Zayn’s neck and his shoulder when he gets a solid smack to the back of his head. “Get off me, you animal.”

Liam clambers away and scrubs at his face with both hands, huffing breath out of his nose. “Animal. Gotcha.” He snorts a bit, leaving the room, storming into the kitchen. He looks wildly around for things to toss, something to break, but all he can see is a collection of strewn empty beer bottles, and those would hardly prove satisfying.

He wants to break something good, something pure, something wholesome.

So he becomes loud.

“I’m just a dog over a bone, am I? And you’re the bone, in that case! Interesting,” he screams, picking up a beer bottle—and it’s not his, and it’s also not his house, so that’s all right, isn’t it, the way the glass cracks so fine against the doorframe.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Zayn yells in return, which is gratifying, although he’s also stalking up behind Liam, and he’s basically naked.

“This isn’t what you wanted, darling?” Liam asks, dropping another bottle onto the floor. It doesn’t break, sadly, but it does roll around and offer a satisfying clatter. He laughs as Zayn darts for him, moves away easily as Zayn becomes angrier and angrier.

But then, so does he.

“Any creature comfort, innit?” he cries, ducking into the hall. He’s got fire in his throat, for about seven reasons, and nothing is okay. He topples onto Zayn’s disgusting sofa, its fabric rough on his shoulders and back. “As if that’s not what I am.”

“Fuck you.” Zayn collapses onto the floor as soon as he enters the room, his skin glistening as his chest heaves.

“You have.” Liam is triumphant, but not.

“Not the goddamn point!”

And Zayn has tears in his eyes, but so does Liam.

:

_what do you need?_

_someone to touch me.  
what do you need?_

_someone to love_

:

Zayn remains pissed that Liam tossed glass around his apartment, but he gets over it eventually, when Liam offers him both blow and a blowjob. Zayn fists at Liam’s hair and gets loud, berating him.

Liam slurps off once and laughs, looking Zayn in the eye. “You know you’re not too good for this.”

“Nor are you.”

And neither one is wrong.

:

Liam is the one to clean up, as he usually is, and Zayn watches him with aggressively bright eyes.

“You could help, you know.”

“But I won’t.”

They both look strung-out—Liam knows because he’s glanced in the mirror but also because he’s looked at Zayn, seen his pupils and the pallor of his cheeks. They look fucked-up beyond normal repair, which would maybe be laughable in other circumstances, except he really feels destroyed.

 

So Liam tosses the glass remnants at Zayn, and although they don’t connect, they might as well do.

 

When Zayn tackles him, he thinks he deserves it.

 

:

When Louis died, Liam thinks, everything beautiful and soft died with him.


	3. ---

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's like fire

Liam hopes he’s not broken, but he’s not entirely sure how one determines their level of brokenness. His sister recommended grief counselling just once, and their dad just about laughed her out of the room—not unkindly, but just because it’s _not done._

Liam thinks it’s done plenty, but he doesn’t really know how to go about finding someone who’s not a quack. Upon a time, he’d have asked Louis, who might have taken the piss a little but who wouldn’t’ve laughed. He’d’ve asked around or pulled out his phone to find someone with decent qualifications and a big squashy couch for him to sit on while he spilled all his sad-dog secrets.

Realistically, he could ask his mum, but her eyes are always full of worry and Liam thinks this request might be one step too far. When she thinks he’s not looking, he sees her checking the caps of his bottle of paracetemol (the only danger is that the meds are expired), examining the sharpness of his kitchen-knives (well, Louis’ old kitchen knives, now bequeathed to him), asking whether the windows in his eighth-floor flat open (they do, but he says they don’t).

He has no clue how to tell her that he’s not suicidal, because he’s not, he’s really not, because fuck knows he’s seen too much death and even more rotten decay in the past year, and he doesn’t really need to add to the misery that’s covered his existence. 

He has no real way to tell her that the thing he’s really feeling is _anger._

 _Anger’s_ not even a big enough concept to cover what he’s feeling. He’s so full of _rage_ it’s burning him up, white-hot and searing. It’s turning his bones to dust and his shoulders to stone. It’s choking him so much that he wants to tear the universe apart just to get a release.

 _Fury_ sounds juvenile, makes him sound like a comic-book character rather than someone done so wrong by the world that he can’t find the words to lament. Anger, rage, fury, despair—they all form a solid ball in his chest that no amount of heat will burn away.

Sometimes, after work, Liam collapses on his bed and thinks that the sunburn-tan he’s gotten from the construction site is actually his rage burning him alive from the inside.

:

It’s not lost on him that Louis died of cancer, of something burning in his lungs until they couldn’t hold on any longer. He’s sometimes stupid, but he’s not _slow._

“Yes you are,” Zayn mutters, flicking his battered lighter on repeat, as if to emphasize how much he’d prefer to be smoking rather than talking. Liam knows that if Zayn opened the window and stuck his head outside to smoke a bit, he would absolutely push him out, and he once told Zayn as much.

“I’m what?”

“You’re slow.”

Apparently Liam had spoken that thought aloud, watching Zayn flick his lighter open and closed on repeat. Suddenly Liam wishes for some lighter fluid and a Zippo of his own. “Quicker’n you. Least I know how to go after what I want in a timely goddamn manner.”

Zayn snaps his lighter shut, turning around to glare at Liam. “Low blow, Payno.”

Liam shrugs, feeling his face flush a bit. He runs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Where’s the gracious _people aren’t things to be won and bartered_ attitude I’m so used to? Not that I’m complaining, that one was getting a bit old.” He mutters something that sounds like _sanctimonious prick_ and Liam is absolutely not going to ask about that, not only because he doesn’t know what sanctimonious means.

Which is fine. Sometimes people don’t know what words mean, it has nothing whatsoever to do with his intelligence.

The right side of Zayn’s lips quirks up. “Gagging to ask me what that means, are you?”

“Fuck you,” Liam replies, deflating at the easy bait.

“Haven’t you just?”

It’s enough of a come-on for Liam to stalk closer, shucking off his dirty black vest. He should have changed after work, should have showered, pretended to be courteous. But he doesn’t think Zayn deserves it, and worse, he doesn’t think Zayn _wants_ it. He doesn’t want courtesy, he just wants someone to feed into the rage he feels.

Of the few things they’ve talked about, the rage is one of them. The disappointment, the unfairness, the fucking disgust of someone being taken away from them. They shared a sense of ownership then, just for a few moments, uniting them against the universe.

And, because the universe is extremely unfair, Liam is once again going to go after what he wants, if just for now.

He steps into Zayn’s personal space, such as it is these days with the two of them, flipping Zayn around so he faces the wall. He yanks at the waistband of his trackies, slipping them down below his arse but just barely. And since he’s trying to make an effort to appear a slag, he’s not wearing pants, like it’ll do anything but make Liam snort.

And that’s what he does, just before pressing a hand into Zayn’s right cheek, opening him up a bit. He dips down until he’s kneeling, darting his tongue out to press against Zayn’s rim. He kneads his hand against Zayn’s skin, hoping to bruise with his blunt fingertips but expecting he probably won’t.

Lately things haven’t worked out very well for Liam, all in all.

Regardless, he laps his tongue at Zayn’s rim, wetting his skin generously because he’s decided to tease like that, at least for now. He takes his time with him, making Zayn whine, pressing with his right hand hard into Zayn’s pert skin.

Liam isn’t sure how long he works Zayn over, isn’t sure how many whines escape his arched-up throat, and he doesn’t entirely think it matters, because eventually he’s spit-slick enough for Liam to shove his finger inside, working Zayn open just a little bit more. With two more whines and no more encouragement, he adds a second finger, stretching Zayn wider.

He scissors his fingers apart, moving his hand to press into Zayn’s lower back, shoving him against the wall, hoping his cock is trapped against the roughness of the plaster, knowing it’s probably not.

Nothing really goes his way lately.

He’s barely a third finger in, just the top knuckle, when Zayn claims he’s ready enough, and with the snick of the condom wrapper and a quick sheathing, he’s pressing inside of Zayn without a second thought.

Zayn is warm and tight, but a healthy warm, nothing so dangerous or insane as the fire inside Liam’s chest, although that’s burning plenty bright. He sinks all the way in, eventually noting that he hasn’t even taken off his pants or moved his denim down his thighs too much. He belly gets warm, without over-heating the way he’s started to fear.

Eventually he’s seated deep inside Zayn, their breaths settle a bit, if barely. “Good, babe, good, you good?” Liam slurs, arms braced around Zayn’s shoulders, which are pressed into the wall.

“Good, yeah, keep going,” he says as if it wasn’t generally obvious from the way he pressed backwards into Liam’s pelvis.

The slow burn inside Liam’s stomach doesn’t totally seem to translate, because Zayn starts to mewl rather than outright whine, and that’s not on. Liam dicks in harder, then, setting a more even pace, bottoming out every time.

He pistons forward until he can feel himself tighten, until he feels even more whip-thin than Zayn is. They both grunt, and it’s unattractive but hot, sends a spark through Liam’s neck. “Gonna, gonna—”

And that’s it.

:

It’s days later, and it’s an anniversary that makes Liam choke and cough and nearly punch a wall, until he hears a buzz at his flat. He lets Zayn in without too much thought outside of the fact that they had no set plan, not that they always need one.

But they’re both sober.

 

It’s not until Liam sees the battered Tesco bag of random fireworks that he adopts a wide, private grin.

 

They move to the roof of Liam’s flat, which is ill-advisedly and probably illegally left open most of the time, so that Liam can sit on the edge of the roof while he watches Zayn set up the firecrackers.

He himself lights up a cigarette and watches the way the flame dances over the ink of his hand tattoos. He sucks a slow drag before taking a drink from the beer he’d remembered to bring up with him. It quells the heat, a bit, but watching Zayn light a fire before him is enrapturing in a way he’s never had language for before.

 

In the back of his head, he thinks to send up a prayer.

 

He laughs so hard as the first firework goes off. He laughs the hardest he’s laughed in almost a year, a real laugh, one from the hot depth of his gut. He laughs so hard he nearly falls of the roof, and then he tosses the beer bottle over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IGNORE MY MIXED METAPHORS PLEASE, I burn with the fire of a thousand suns


	4. ----

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crash and burn

Some days, he feels like he’s lighting matches only to snuff them out again—lighting them on the back of his teeth, so that the sulfur gathers there, marking his tongue black. His mouth tastes acrid all the time, anyway, some of which is down to his diet of beer and cigarettes.

 

The cigarettes are a new affectation, when his fingers are itching for something to do in idle moments. Part of him also misses the smell of Louis’ smoke, and their home doesn’t feel quite the same without it clinging to the walls.

It’s a bit sick, is the thing, but not smoking makes him feel a bit like he’s contracting a fever. His skin feels hot to the touch, whether it emanates from inside or whether he’s being invaded. He has no idea how to put out fires, not really, because he was too sickly to pursue fire-rescue training when he was younger, and by the time he met Louis he no longer wanted to put himself in such danger. 

Because people love him. 

Or, someone loved him, once. He’s got one true love to his name, and in the coldest hours, when his skin still feels white-hot, sometimes that’s all that comforts him.

:

He continues to meet up with Zayn at the bar, because his instincts are shit, obviously, as his instincts are also currently telling him to keep smoking and to let Zayn smoke, too. It’s not like he can stop Zayn from doing anything, although he could probably attempt to browbeat him into at least feeling guilty, but Liam’s sort of gotten—lazy with it all.

He thinks it’s mostly Zayn who wants to prove things, lately, and really, he’s too busy burning up to find the words to fix anything at all.

 

He can fix things with his hands, though, and not just at work. He’s taken to tinkering (a word his mum likes to use, along with “puttering”) with shit, like the toaster and the kettle when they’re acting up. The kettle shocks him a couple of times, which seems fitting. 

The burn marks hurt for weeks, although he doesn’t seem to have any other lingering side effects.

 

:

Even Zayn eventually notices something is more-wrong than not-wrong, takes to putting a hand to Liam’s forehead periodically, especially after they’ve fucked.

“Fuck off,” Liam says, shoving at Zayn with his forearm, knocking away his hand. “You’re not my mum.”

Zayn snorts, falling onto this back against the headboard. “Thank God, innit. I’d’ve aborted you and all that.”

The statement makes Liam see red, not that it’s an unusual condition for him lately, and he blindly lashes out to slap at Zayn’s side. Zayn barely hisses, this time, probably because Liam didn’t put his real strength behind it. “Fuck you.”

He’s clearly losing something, burning out like a dying campfire.

He submits easily when Zayn clambers on top of him, straddling Liam’s hips and settling his own hands onto Liam’s throat. There’s no real pressure or weight behind the gesture, and Liam could easily topple Zayn if he needed to, but instead he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the feeling.

The burning coals in his chest start to settle a little bit, too, just for a moment.

:

Eventually, Liam realizes he _actually_ has a fever, which is apt, given that he’s complete shit at taking care of his health lately. His throat hurts, both when he swallows and when he doesn’t, and talking isn’t a thing he can do much of.

In a burst of good luck he never seems to get most of the time, he’s got a break from his business classes, and he doesn’t feel guilty calling off work for a few days, knowing he’d likely fuck something up royally if he did head in to a build site. In keeping with the long stretch of regular-old bad luck he’s had for a year or so now, he has no food in his flat and his pharmaceuticals are expired.

Liam has nothing to bring his fever down except periodic flannels doused with cold water, and an eventual too-cold bath that he straight-up falls asleep in.

He wakes up to hear someone pounding loudly at his door, and he groggily stumbles out of after just barely remembering to wrap a towel around his waist.

He yanks the door open and leans against it, closing his eyes when he sees it’s, inevitably, Zayn. “What.” 

“Christ, man.” Zayn shoves him backwards into the flat and crowds his way into the doorway. “You look terrible.”

“Yeah, cheers.” Liam sighs and leaves the room, holding his towel up with one hand, although he supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Really don’t care!” Liam calls, shuffling his way into the kitchen to grab a beer. Or two, really, since he should offer his not-guest one, even though he didn’t invite Zayn over and he’s really pretty sure he doesn’t want Zayn there at all.

Zayn follows him. “You didn’t answer your mobile.”

“Still not my mum,” Liam replies, opening a bottle for himself before even pretending to care that Zayn get one. He necks at it, gulping down three times. Then he hands Zayn the other, unopened bottle.

“I know, I’m much prettier.”

If Liam felt up for fighting, he’d probably launch himself at Zayn for even implying something like that, but as it is, he just keeps drinking. When the bottle’s empty, he belches impressively and grabs himself another beer. He pads back towards the bath, remembering that he left his stuff on the lid of the toilet. Zayn follows him.

Liam sets the new bottle on the sink, bending down to pick up his lighter and get another cigarette from his near-empty packet. He’s got a cigarette to his lips, about to be lit, when Zayn full-on slaps him across the face. The cigarette falls into the cold bathwater as Liam coughs. “What the fuck?” he grinds out, his voice hoarse due to his sore throat, due to the fact that he already smoked the entirety of a pack of fags that morning and midday.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Liam’s cough turns into a laugh, but that turns into another cough, until he’s sitting on the closed toilet, one hand covering his mouth and one hand pressed hard against his chest. When he’s done, he sighs a bit, feeling winded. “What have I done wrong now?”

Zayn’s face looks murderous, his hazel eyes flashing and his jaw set, hard. He grabs Liam’s packet of cigarettes and, while making pointed eye contact with Liam, tosses it into the bath with the other discarded fag.

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“Fine, whatever.” Liam drops his lighter onto the floor and gets to his feet, shoving past Zayn to go towards his bed. He’s exceptionally tired, is the thing, with the way his body’s trying to burn him up from the inside.

He collapses onto his bed, the duvet mussed but still mostly covering the mattress. His head drops against a pillow and he falls asleep with his towel still wrapped around his waist.

:

Liam wakes up thirteen hours later. He’s naked and completely wrapped up in the duvet. There’s a bottle of water on the side table, right next to his mobile, which is charged to 95 percent. He sucks down the water and pulls on a pair of basketball shorts, wincing as his stomach growls loudly.

He takes a piss and goes into the kitchen to get more water. The small counter is inexplicably covered—he sees a bag of coffee beans, four apples, a box of penne, two things of Digestives, and an aubergine. The fridge has been replenished with beer, a carton of eggs, some brie, and chicken breasts.

Bewildered, he grabs a beer and wanders deeper into his flat, only to find Zayn lounging on his couch, smoking while he scrolls lazily through his phone. “Morning, sunshine,” Zayn calls out without looking at Liam.

“Is it morning?”

“Near enough.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shit at doing the shopping?” Liam asks, falling onto the couch by Zayn’s feet.

“Yeah,” Zayn replies with a shrug before taking a drag of his cigarette. “But I can’t really have you getting scurvy, now, can I?”

“I don’t think an aubergine is going to cure scurvy, mate.” Liam’s voice has gone soft, now that his throat doesn’t burn raw every time he talks. He pets at one of Zayn’s ankles for a moment before he leans forward to steal Zayn’s fag, bracing for a fight that doesn’t come.

:

He and Zayn are wandering home from the bar one night later that week, caught up in themselves the way tipsy people so often are. Zayn’s laughs as he watches Liam jump up onto a lamppost, swinging around it like a stripper pole, and Liam’s chest feels warm in a healthy-enough way, rather than a way that feels like he’s dying. He thinks his heart’s tipsy, not just his head, plus he’s dizzy from spinning around the lamp and from laughing, and from kissing Zayn in the alleyway beside the pub. He steps back on to the pavement, laughing easily.

A moment later, his heart clenches—Zayn trips into the street, unable to catch himself until Liam lunges to save him from the sedan barreling its way towards them. “Jesus Christ, Z, watch what the fuck you’re doing,” Liam mutters, yanking Zayn bodily off the pavement and into his chest, back towards his abandoned streetlamp.

Zayn giggles, letting his head fall onto Liam’s shoulder as they both hit the lamppost hard. “Don’t need to, do I. Got you around to save me.”

Liam shoves him, and he stumbles, landing on his arse and both hands, crying out into the quiet night. “Can’t save anyone. Certainly can’t save you.”

Zayn huffs in, pulling his hands up to examine his bloody palms. He picks some dirt out of them, his eyes bright in the light of the streetlamp. “No. I s’pose not.”

Liam waits until Zayn’s done petulantly cleaning off his palms, and he hails Zayn a cab. Then he walks himself back to his flat and doesn’t manage to fall asleep until the sun’s risen.

:

Liam’s texts go unanswered for three days. He takes to loitering outside of Zayn’s place, but he can’t seem to manage the right time to sneak in as someone’s leaving the building, nor does he spot Zayn himself leaving.

 _Desperate measures,_ he thinks, and he calls in to the police saying that someone’s lit some rubbish on fire behind the building and it looks like it’s catching—only after he actually lights some on fire, only after realizing he’s either a great or a terrible arsonist.

He worries the building is actually in danger of lighting up, but nothing comes of it. One firefighter quickly douses the flames, congratulating Liam that he had the forethought to call it in before it got too bad.

No one even needed to evacuate the building.

Liam heads home, grabs a beer, and dumps the rotten aubergine in the bin. He runs a tepid bath and pulls a cigarette out of his fresh pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi it's my birthday, come talk to me!  
> Comment and critique, as always.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


	5. -----

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one time

Liam waits, for just a bit.

Not long enough to be dangerous, really, he thinks. Probably. But part of that is because he doesn’t entirely know how long one person can go without food before it becomes dangerous. So he goes online and does a bit of a shop for Zayn, but he gets things that are more useful than a single aubergine and some pasta—like oven-bake chicken that’s pre-frozen, some pizzas, lunch meat (nothing pork-based), some bread that hopefully won’t go bad too soon, and a bunch of beer.

Liam can at least return the favour for beer.

He wants to be the one to deliver it, but that’s not how delivery services work, so he continues to lurk. He’s not entirely sure where or when he got Zayn’s address, and part of him worries he’s got the wrong spot, until Zayn texts him a singular word: _thanx_

And it’s not even a real word, really, although Liam’s not the end-all when it comes to grammar and spelling and all that. Which maybe Zayn knows, and maybe Zayn’s making fun of him?

So he shows up outside of Zayn’s flat relentlessly, when he’s not working and not in class, and eventually he finds a way in that doesn’t involve failed arson. All it involves is him watching Zayn exit his block of flats and turn left, allowing Liam to fall into step beside him.

“This how you pursue all the people you fancy?” Zayn asks lightly, sticking a cigarette into the corner of his lips so he can smile around it.

“Who said I fancy you?” Liam responds, on the immediate defensive. He immediately winces.

“Actions speak.” Zayn shrugs, the cherry of his cigarette bobbing when Liam looks over at him.

“Right. Where are you going?”

“Friend’s place.”

Liam waits for more explanation, not that he’s deserved any info at all, really. “Descriptive.”

Zayn snorts. “If I give you more information, you’ll want to come along.”

“Who says I don’t want to come along now? Actions speaking, and all.”

Zayn shrugs again, looking down at his feet as he walks. “My friend’s helping me with the tattooing, so I can actually, like. Pursue an apprenticeship. Like for real.”

“Oh. Shit, wow.”

“Yeah?” he asks quickly, snapping his head up to search Liam’s face.

“Yeah. Yes,” Liam insists, nodding. “Of course.”

He nods in return, slowly. “Cool. Well, you still can’t come.”

Liam reels back, stung somewhere in the center of his chest. “What the fuck? Why not?”

“Because the guest list is super exclusive, obviously.” He knocks his hip into Liam’s side. “Nah, but. Won’t be able to get my hand to stop shaking if you’re there an’ all. Watching.”

Liam stops dead in his tracks. “Oh. Fuck.”

“You can walk me there if you want, but I noticed your care package was conspicuously missing beverages. So go be a doll and get me whiskey and I’ll meet you at yours in a few hours.” Zayn shoves at him with a lazy hand.

“Whiskey? Really?”

He grimaces. “Being told I’ve a _long way to go_ tries at my nerves the best of times. I’ll need whiskey.”

“Yeah. All right.”

:

He picks up whiskey because some part of him really does love to indulge others in relatively harmless ways. But he doesn’t examine _harmless_ too closely, in this case, because nothing feels entirely benign anymore, especially not when it comes to Zayn. For instance, his flat’s a tip, but cleaning it feels laden with statements and purpose and bullshit. Instead he moves shit around his kitchen and empties the bin into their, designated rubbish-chute, trying to look like he’s not trying too hard.

He has no frame of reference for how hard to try anymore, of what’s normal or what’s too intense or what’s too lazy. He supposes Zayn will tell him eventually, in either his too-frank or passive-aggressive way, or else pointedly in the middle of sex.

:

They swallow down whiskey the same way Liam’s learned to swallow down the fire in his throat—quickly, and with a distinct level of discomfort, all covering the hope that it wouldn’t come roiling back up again.

Liam bites down on his tongue at one point, trying not to laugh at the spectacle Zayn’s making of himself across the kitchen. He’s head-banging to the Ramones, but not one of the songs that Liam really likes. He prefers, like, _Beat on the Brat_ to anything resembling _The KKK Took My Baby Away,_ even with the violent imagery. He’s not much keen on people being taken away, not lately. So he leaps over to the poor-man’s speaker system Zayn’s set up with his mobile (cracked iPhone nestled artlessly into a similarly cracked mug), thumbing through the songs until he finds _Sheena is a Punk Rocker,_ which he figures they can compromise on.

Zayn changes his rhythm, moving from head-banging into a weird hip-based shimmy, mostly side-to-side with his arms in the air, his lanky hair covering his face. Christ, his hair’s gone long lately—Liam could almost hook it behind Zayn’s ears, if he were feeling affectionate and close enough.

Instead he just laughs again, ducking into Zayn’s space to wrap one hand around his shimmying hip, pulling him in close to kiss his whiskey-wet lips.

Zayn pulls away, grabbing the whiskey bottle from the counter, twirling in a few small circles. “Y’know—” he hiccups, “I always meant—me and Lou always meant to go to CBGB, you know?”

“Zed, I’m—I feel like CBGB closed in, um, 2005,” Liam exhale-laughs, backing away so he can watch Zayn sway.

Zayn shakes his head hard, continuing to shimmy even while he disagrees with Liam. “Think it was 2006, and I know that I was all of like thirteen—wait.”

“Thirteen, yeah.”

“Thirteen, okay, good. Like, I know we were thirteen, but that makes it even—it makes sense, like, that pull, that goddamn urge to be in the thick of it, right? The beat of the bass, hitting you square in the chest, right? In the—what was it, the solar plexus?” Zayn snorts, his eyes falling closed slowly. “The drums singing through your bloodstream with every hit of the sticks, until you feel mad, or even rabid with it, you know? Until your body just seizes up, and you just—you just, you see God.”

Liam looks up at Zayn, who’s still got his eyes closed and his head tipped back. “See God?”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes. “Until you see God.”

:

Zayn continues to pontificate, talks about _deifying outcasts_ and _listening to miscreants,_ along with other shit Liam can’t entirely follow. When _Strength to Endure_ comes on—because leave it to Zayn to have the Ramones entire discography, not just their good shit or their well-known shit—Liam moves towards Zayn, moves to take off his tight black t-shirt, moves to feed him a shot from the bottle he’s taken away, moves to kiss into the burning liquid of Zayn’s mouth.

And then they move together, they burn together, before they even make it into Liam’s bed.

:

The next morning is languid, with the light barely coming in through Liam’s single bedroom window. Zayn has his arm draped across one of Liam’s shoulder and onto his collarbone, and his mouth is open so much that he’s drooling onto Liam’s pillow.

It’s endearing while also being a bit gross, and it makes Liam reel back immediately.

He retreats to the toilet, sinking down onto the floor as soon as the door is shut. He rests his head onto the floor-mat, and he doesn’t notice when he falls asleep.

:

He wakes to Zayn pelting him with unusual bathroom items, mostly the ones he and Louis never really used. He finds four cotton squares in his hair, along with strings of floss along his torso.

“What the fuck do you want?” Liam grinds out, levering himself up on one arm.

Zayn huffs. “Want to make sure you didn’t think I wanted to invite you to, like, some couples retreat.”

Liam sighs, falling down onto the bathmat, not because he thinks he might vomit but because he just wants to be _the fuck away from Zayn._ “Right.”

“You don’t get to go with me, when I go to CBGB.”

“It’s closed, mate. Doesn’t exist.”

Zayn kneels on the floor, far too close to Liam for his comfort. “Fuck you.”

Liam sighs again. “You’re mad.”

“Uh. Damn right?”

“I’m mad too, at you. You’re trying to replace him, and it’s shit.”

Zayn flails out on arm, failing to hit Liam. “Fuck you.”

“Mate, man. He didn’t love you like that.”

“And I repeat. Fuck you.”

Zayn eventually pins Liam’s arms down, just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CBGB closed in 2006 and it’s still one of my huge regrets that I never got to visit it, especially during its prime (when I was either a fetus or a child, so). I missed the Ramones, Blondie, Patti Smith, Misfits, Talking Heads, Joan Jett……man oh man, Jesus wept, am I right?


	6. ------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been a long time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the last chapter was a bit at-odds with the tone of this thing, but it'll all pay off, I promise

Liam bucks him off easily, and they both go tumbling nearly into the tub as they grapple with one another. Zayn tries to go for Liam’s throat, while Liam aims for Zayn’s midsection, hoping to wrap an arm around him. Neither one is successful, and then Zayn winds up to hit Liam in the face so that his head knocks hard against the tile flooring.

It connects so solidly he sees stars. He goes breathless, unable to keep the fire down inside him, feels all the air in his chest get burnt up. He doesn’t even have enough air left to gasp at Zayn to get off him, so he just goes limp on the floor as his vision goes dark.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, all he can see is a blurry Zayn looking down at him. His eyebrows are pinched together, but other than that, he looks unconcerned. “Did I hurt you?”

“M’all right,” Liam slurs, closing his eyes again.

“I didn’t think that blow would land, mate, you’re kind of—like a wall of muscle, innit.”

“What good is a wall if it’s lying on the ground?”

“Uh—oh God, have you got a concussion? That make no sense. Do I need to take you to A&E?”

“No, you need to get the fuck out of my face before I return the favour,” Liam snarls, cracking open one eye again.

Zayn falls to the side, leaning on one elbow. “I-I believe you, but I don’t want to leave you alone right now.”

“Get the fuck out of here before I smash your head in!”

:

Zayn’s nowhere to be found when Liam eventually finds his way upright.

He feels both doubly and triply abandoned, with no one to talk to about it.

:

His work suffers.

At least, in his own estimation, his work suffers.

It’s not like he falls off a roof or into the foundation of a new-build, but he does forget to spot one of his coworkers in a dicey position, and he blanks about drinking water during a particularly warm day.

 

:

He almost wishes he’d fallen unconscious, rather than just getting dazed enough to stare into space for an hour or so.

His mobile’s sat on his knee, and he’s cross-legged, and he’s staring into the dust of the new-build like maybe he can find God in it. His mobile’s not buzzing, of course, and dust can’t tell him about heaven.

The dust is lovely, though, straw-coloured and floating, reminding him of bright laughs and something sharp.

:

Louis was lovely. He was love. He was stupidly beautiful, and he was bright, and, and he was perfect. But Louis wanted Liam to quit construction, so there’s that. And he thought Liam was made for great things, so there’s that. And he liked tattoos, so there’s—well, there’s that.

So there’s this.

:

“You’re not going with me.”

Zayn snorts. “Only time will tell.”

 

Liam hates him, of course, but he also has _only time will tell_ tattooed on his wrist shortly thereafter.

:

“You—I didn’t do that, like. On you.”

Somehow, Zayn is in Liam’s flat, and Liam is languidly opening his eyes from a very-drunken stupor. He doesn’t remember if rum or vodka did him in, but it doesn’t much matter, since the result is the same. “What.”

“Tattoo.”

“Mhm.” Liam sighs heavily and rolls onto his back.

“Seriously.”

“What.”

“I didn’t do that tattoo. On you.”

“Right.”

“You did that shitty thing on your own.”

Liam groans. “I don’t care, mate, all right? Just—water.”

Zayn sighs. “To your right.” 

It’s maybe a little bit like love.

:

Except it’s not.

 

Zayn’s gone when Liam needs him, and Liam thinks he’s also probably gone when Zayn needs him, but they don’t actually mention that kind of shit.

 

The next time Liam wakes up, he has to fetch his own water, which is its own kind of penance. He’s through the worst of his hangover but not totally past it, meaning he’s in a place that Louis always called _maudlin._

The water doesn’t quell the fire inside him, doesn’t even help with the smoke-storm in his throat. The empty cigarette packs have seen to that hurt, and there’s no soothing it right now. That’s likely not going away for a while.

Unlike Zayn, who’s nowhere to be found.

 

:

Liam doesn’t trust himself to leave his flat for a few days, not since he took a header onto the floor of his own bathroom. He’s having weird dreams, too, although he’s not so sure they can be called dreams if he’s constantly in a half-doze, half between asleep and awake, literally all the time. His back starts to hurt because he spends so long horizontal, deep down low, just above the cleft of his arse. Only then does he turn to his side, but then his hip starts to hurt, too.

 

Some time later, he goes back to the scene of the crime and starts to draw himself a tepid bath. Louis would admonish him, not only for taking a bath—it’s indulgent and ridiculous, for starters, plus he doesn’t even have a bath bomb to his name—but also for the self-pity.

Liam chuckles to himself as he steps into the room-temperature water, willing the fire under his skin to boil off, just for now.

 

He falls asleep again, because that’s his life lately, falling asleep in inappropriate places. Once he towels off, he tosses all of his dirty clothes and towels into a laundry pile and steps into clean skinnies. He knows they’re not an old pair of Louis’ since they actually fit him, and he knows they’re not Zayn’s because they’re not ripped.

He walks down the road to a Starbucks and gets an iced green tea, trying not to contemplate his life choices. The tea is cold enough that he doesn’t choke on it, but not so cold that it stops tears from pricking up in his eyes.

It’s been that kind of week, he thinks.

He finds a high-top table by the window and gets out some of his schoolwork, but he doesn’t actually intend to do it. He wants to people-watch, in hopes that he’ll feel less abandoned.

He feels abandoned, but he also feels like he’s done a lot of abandoning. He felt closed-off, checked-out, with Louis, at the end, felt like they didn’t connect anymore, felt like he was a useless add-on to the IVs and the valves and the monitors. He felt second-best to chemo, which is so goddamn pathetic that Liam wants to cry harder than he already is.

But he’s not crying, is he, he’s people-watching.

He thinks maybe he abandoned Zayn a couple times, here and there, but right now he’s too focused on feeling hard-done by Zayn himself, along with feeling like they’ve both just—left Louis behind.

They’ve let Louis down, the both of them. There’s no way around it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment and critique, please! xx


	7. -------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> given up trying to deny

Liam visits the nearby animal shelter a couple of times, not because he thinks he can take care of a dog (certainly not a puppy) but because he likes dogs and sometimes they do things like bring him joy.

He presumes that momentary joy is still _joy._

Plus, anything that doesn’t involve him prostrate on his ratty grey couch for ten hours is probably good for his psychological health. Although, The Great British Bake Off is fairly nostalgic for him, all things considered, while he mostly watched an entire series of it because he was too tired to find the remote.

But he’s too broken to nurture anything right now, even a floundering relationship, and he’s definitely too fucked-up to take care of something young, something vulnerable.

But he can look, and he can visit.

And while that sounds creepy, it also sounds eerily similar to what he does with Zayn sometimes. He doesn’t really feel like he can latch in anywhere, that he can find a _home_ in anyone, that he can’t find the comfort he really wants. He feels like he’s visiting, that his body’s turned to smoke and air, that somehow no one around can really see him.

His insides are crumbling up.

:

He has a two-week break from business classes, ostensibly for hols and such, but he’s still got a few days at work before he can head to visit his parents’ place guilt-free. _And_ he can no longer fill his free time, such as it is, with chain-smoking and angst-fucking, according to his friend Andy, who actually echoes his sister’s suggestion that he should probably also seek counselling.

Liam, who’s know Andy since way too long and knows that sensitivity is not exactly his strong suit, pauses for a full thirty seconds before responding to both statements. He thinks to ask if Andy’s taking the piss, but that seems unnecessarily confrontational and Liam really doesn’t have the patience for anyone to yell at him right now.

“Um.”

Andy sighs, pausing their FIFA game so he can turn to look Liam directly in the eye. “Look. Just, like, get—go outside and do something, maybe.”

Liam snorts. “Yes, thank you. I’m cured of everything that’s ever been wrong with me. Very enlightening.” He un-pauses the game while rolling his eyes.

“Fuck off.” Andy turns back to the game when the sound resumes. “But like. What d’you think’s wrong with you, then?”

Liam pauses the game and nearly tosses his controller at Andy’s head. “You’re fucking with me right now.”

“Okay, I don’t mean Louis—or at least, not just Louis. That’s not—that’s its own thing, or whatever. Obviously.”

“Mourning my dead fiancé? Yeah thanks, no big.”

Andy drops his controller and sighs heavily. “So you clearly can’t talk about it with me, right? That, uh. That might be saying something. Shit.” He goes to bring them more beers from the kitchen. Setting the whole six-pack on the table, he adds, “Let’s pretend we’re eighteen again, since you look like the skinny little thing you were at that age.”

In silence, Liam takes one hand to circle his thumb and pinky around the opposite wrist. It fits with ease, but he doesn’t look up to see if Andy’s watching him.

:

One of the paid workers at the shelter eventually takes pity on him, probably due to his own hang-dog sad eyes and how long he spends cuddling random dogs while he volunteers. Viola eventually offers to let him take some of the less rowdy dogs on walks every so often. Liam thinks this is perhaps because, according to his sister, his pout has the potential to end wars.

Viola always gives him a baggie of treats to take on walks with him, but he still has to carry the tan coonhound, whom he’s taken to calling Pete, more or less everywhere because the small thing is a bit lazy.

It all helps, of course it does, but he still has to leave them behind every single time. For _right now,_ he has to, every single time, because he can’t do anything better for them but that.

:

When he’s not at work or walking large groups of small dogs, he’s at the gym. When he’s not at the gym, he’s with Zayn. When he’s with Zayn physically, that is, if not _psychically._ He’s not sure which of them is actually present at any given time, and he often feels like he’s liable to just—float away.

One early evening he wakes up from a doze, and they’re both sort of tangled up together on the floor, just a bit too far from the radiator but very close to Liam’s couch. The floor is hard even with the rug they’re on, probably because the rug came with the flat, and the flat was old even when he and Louis originally started renting it. They don’t have a blanket near, mostly because they hadn’t intended to have sex here to start with, let alone fall asleep half-dressed.

Liam grumbles a little in his chest, running his hand through the hair at the back of his neck, which is longer than he realized. He perhaps needs a haircut, but his priorities are elsewhere, nearly all the time. But his priorities are particually elsewhere now, the moment he looks over and sees Zayn lying next to him. The moment he looks over, he forgets how to breathe.

His brain clouds with smoke as his hand moves slowly towards Zayn. His fingers ghost over one rounded shoulder, towards the indentation of his collarbone, down to the dip just below his throat. He traces along Zayn’s chin and jaw without touching, moving towards his sharp collarbone and fanned-out eyelashes. The light from the flat window is minimal, so Zayn doesn’t seem to glow quite as brightly as he usually does, but there’s still an internal resonance that Liam can’t seem to deny.

He’s given up trying to deny.

The moment reminds him of one of the pop-psychology things his sister once mentioned, or maybe it was real psychology that he actually heard of before, about the different stages of grieving. 

Denial is apparently a big one.

He runs one finger deliberately over Zayn’s bottom lip, pulling at the skin with a slow drag. He’s teasing, he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. He’s not fond of denial anymore, is the thing.

Liam keeps tracing his hands and fingers over Zayn’s skin, medium-warm to the touch, but much hotter than the floor they’re both lying on. Reasonably, Liam thinks he’s gotten warmer than the room around them, too, thinks he’s always getting warmer and has no idea when he’ll actually crumble entirely.

Eventually, he settles a palm gently onto Zayn’s chest, and it takes him an uncomfortably long time to realize it’s just above Zayn’s heart.

 

When he wakes up again, Zayn’s face is settled into the crook of his neck, and every piece of him wants to die.

:

Liam likes to avoid conflict, generally speaking. What he does not like to avoid is the manic onslaught of Zayn crowding against him as they take a shower together, teeth at his neck and arm at his shoulder. 

He likes to meet that head-on, with energy.

So he backs his way into Zayn’s body, crowding into his space and his heat, letting himself feel the solid way that Zayn’s forehead falls onto his shoulder. Their hair’s soaked, the both of them, and Liam’s getting water into his eyes as well, plus his mouth is spluttering.

But his back is yielding against Zayn’s chest, and he tries to mold himself so they fit together. He feels half-successful when he hears Zayn’s low hum, when he feels the vibration of it go through him. He searches back with his left hand to grasp onto the nape of Zayn’s neck, forcing Zayn’s face into his shoulder. It’s a good feeling, a breathless one, with them both under the water and growing warmer. Liam’s hand stays anchored against Zayn’s skin for a long time, for long enough that they both feel almost clean.

:

Two night later, Liam is almost asleep when he feels a gentle prod at his jawline, just in front of his ear.

“Hm?” he asks as he turns into the feeling.

He hears a quiet snicker. “So you are awake,” Zayn says, his fingers lightly dusting along Liam’s skin.

“Yeah.”

“Was wondering why you did this, but I see the appeal.”

“Hm?” Liam blinks his eyes open, the lashes of his left eye fluttering against the heel of Zayn’s hand. “D’you mean?”

“It’s—a bit lovely, innit.” Zayn’s voice is soft, not accusing him in any way, which is not altogether unusual.

“F’you say what you mean,” Liam mumbles, falling back into a doze, his feet warm against Zayn’s legs and his arm settled beneath Zayn’s neck.

“Yeah.” 

Belatedly, he feels a kiss at his temple.

:

Days later, Liam wonders what the holidays may bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES this was inspired by the Buzzfeed video of Liam PLAYING WITH GODDAMN PUPPIES for seven minutes and also by him saying he wants to COLLAB WITH ZAYN aka SING A DUET. Also he looked like a child, practically 16 or 17 again, so yeah. Eat that up. FEEL THE BEAUTIFUL ANGST.
> 
> The Five Stages of Grief are a real psychological concept, and they were first suggested by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. They’re denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Most people don’t move through them in a linear fashion, instead bopping around from one to the other and back again.


	8. --------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holidays

Even though Liam doesn’t totally know what to expect from the holidays, he does know to expect a few things, like grief, pitying looks from family members, anger, and his sisters’ rum-soaked rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. He has no promises to make or to keep, and no emotional store to back up even his basic actions. He can’t promise phone calls or Facetime sessions or consistent texting, not even when he’s staring right into Zayn’s sleepy eyes.

He kisses Zayn’s right cheekbone and packs up his duffle while Zayn’s still huffing gently, so that he can eventually go make some eggs for them to share for breakfast. He scrambles two eggs and puts them on one plate with some toast and no jam, because he apparently doesn’t care enough to actually shop for much besides fairly simple basics.

He’s of the assumption that Zayn also probably won’t care that much about food necessities, but he thinks Zayn might care about him up-and-leaving, so he sets the plate down directly on Zayn’s chest.

It has an effect, in that Zayn twitches slightly to the left, and then he hums.

Liam gets a mild effect in return—the fan is on, so there’s a steady breeze constantly touching his skin, pressing quietly against his elbows.

He tries to deny the pull that Zayn has on him.

He leaves the warm plate on top of Zayn and exits his flat.

:

 

The train ride is grey and hazy, and Liam spends most of it staring out the window, marking down when he spots graffiti and litter and such. He makes a lot of tick-marks in his head. He’s only got one earbud in his ear, and he’s not even listening to anything interesting, just a crap podcast someone from his hometown puts out every other week for ex-pats who’ve moved away and want to keep up with how their nans are doing.

Liam’s nan is fine, he thinks, but he needs background noise and an excuse for everyone to leave him alone. His frown apparently doesn’t cut it these days—it isn’t enough to really keep people from approaching him.

Andy said that was because Liam’s “well fit lately,” but he said it with a laugh so Liam wasn’t sure to take him seriously or not. “Not trying to pull you or anything, honest. Just saying, is all.”

“Cheers, yeah.”

But now he’s on the train, and he’s speeding towards home, a home that hasn’t known him in years, if in fact it ever really did. The closest to comfort he ever felt was when he was with his few mates around a bonfire, or—and he flushes at even the thought of it—cruising in the park. 

His mates didn’t always understand him, was the thing. Of course. But more, randomers, aggressively hooking up with him near some bushes, absolutely didn’t understand him. He got the appeal, appreciated the appeal, appreciated feeling both anonymous and known at the same time.

Actually, he hated the anonymous bit, but he liked not being beat up in public. He definitely liked the part about being in the dark, being able to hide away a bit. He liked the excitement and the immediacy of the reaction, he liked feeling close to someone, to have someone close to him, even in secret. He liked the warmth.

But eventually, he wanted to be known, truly known.

His mum and dad took the news of his coming-out very differently, particularly after Liam started crying.

“What are you—why are you crying?” his mum spluttered, sitting down hard onto her chair. His mum’s mouth was tight around a grimacing smile, as though she knew how hard life was going to be for him. Perhaps she did.

“Ah, son. Doesn’t change a thing,” his dad said, with an easy laugh, pushing his reading glasses up his nose. “Love you as you are.”

 

The train ride is relatively unremarkable. He gets no texts and no calls. He listens to a podcast and he stares out the window.

Eventually, he’s home.

:

When he gets there, he finds that his home’s exploded. Ruth’s got her husband there, along with two of her work colleagues who’ve nowhere else to go, and Nicola’s brought her flavour of the month, someone named Diana who is very, very beautiful. Then there’s the requisite neighbours and their children, and two dogs that Liam thinks will probably be his constant companions during the first evening he’s home.

After he sets his stuff down in his childhood room, not ready to unpack, he makes his rounds so he can chat with his parents and his siblings and their friends.

He nuzzles so hard into Nicola’s shoulder that she flicks him in the face with a finger and thumb, but she cuddles him throughout it all.

 

Mostly, Liam wants to learn to be as good as his family is.

 

“You’re okay, love, it’s all right,” Nicola whispers, handing him her water glass. “Sip that up and we’ll go outside for a mo, yeah? It’s okay.”

He drinks the water and heaves a sigh, watching her leave the room. His mobile sits heavy in his pocket. Eventually, he sets the glass down so he can walk outside, the door snicking shut with barely a sound. Nicola’s already outside, somehow, with two wine glasses and a heavy jumper over her shoulders, seated on a patio chair.

Liam sighs. “Big sister chat, is this?”

“Hush up and sit down.” She smacks the chair beside hers, palm knocking against the stuffing. “Shit, sorry,” she coughs as dust floats up. “Wine, anyway, I guess,” Nicola adds, waving a bit towards the glass.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He plops down and picks up the plastic wine glass Nica’s offered him, sighing as he does so.

“You’re all right, are you?” she asks, raising one brow as she leans forward to grab her glass from the table.

Liam shrugs, taking a small sip from the glass. The plastic feels weird against his teeth. “I mean, no.”

“You’re alive.”

“I’m alive.” He takes a long drag from the glass.

“And you’re home.” Nicola’s right shoulder raises slightly.

“This is home, then?” He snorts. “No. He was home. Now I’m just—here.”

She inhales. “And here is what, then?”

“Cold. Old-fashioned. I dunno, I feel stifled. I want—” Liam scrubs one hand over his face. “I don’t want to be here, really.”

“You miss Louis?”

“Fuck! Yes, of course I do. But here—no one here even knew him, did they. They knew my version of him.”

“We—”

He interrupts her. “Not you and Ru and mum and da, no, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay.”

“But no one else here knew him, not really.”

Nicola tucks her legs up beneath her on the patio chair. “Not sure I knew him super well, really.” She chuckles. “He was a lot, wasn’t he? Reckon he contained multitudes.”

“Yeah.” Liam closes his eyes and squeezes the glass against his palm. “Can I ask you something?” She makes a small noise of assent, so he carries on. “Did you bring plastic out here to make sure I wouldn’t smash it all against the house?”

“It was a thought.”

He opens his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

:

Liam finishes the night with fruitcake and more wine, most of which his mum hands him wordlessly. He starts to think he’s maybe a charity case until his dad pulls him aside, hand firm on his bicep.

They move into the hall, which is mostly dark. “Son. Hey. What’s going on?”

Liam swipes at one eye. “I just miss him.”

“Oh, love. We all do.”

Liam nods before the tears come, but he keeps nodding as his father wraps him into a hug.

:

He wakes up in his childhood bedroom with a plate of pancakes by his feet, along with a cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha that was my coming-out story too, in that I cried and my parents responded this way. But I never went cruising in a park. Or, like, cruising at all. Being a bisexual woman is very different than being a bisexual or gay man.  
> FYI, there was a really interesting buzzfeed article recently about cottaging/cruising, etc.! It was only slightly fodder for this chapter, as I was going to include awkward hook-ups anyway!...
> 
> AND. Who does he miss? Well.


	9. ---------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holidays are difficult

Liam wakes up early when it’s of his own volition, sort of.  
Ru told him early after Louis passing that insomnia is a sign of depression, and he decided to ignore her.  
He’s ignored her for a long time now, really, if the insomnia is anything to go by.

 

He eats half the pancakes that were left on his bed and takes the remaining two downstairs, where he spots his mum by the sink. He heaves a grateful sigh. “Thanks for the brek.” He sets the plate by her side, staying carefully away from the stark white of her terrycloth robe. He doesn’t want to make a mess.

So he fills the kettle and grabs a mug for himself, sticking a forefinger through his mum’s cup as well. He dashes in some milk and a bit of sugar into his own mug as he plops the teabag in, but his mum’s more particular. So dumps out the entirety of her cold tea and makes her a fresh cuppa.

By the time the kettle’s brewed, his mum’s still standing at the sink, staring out the kitchen window. Liam sets the cup at her elbow and lets it stew, moving to the table with his remaining two pancakes, long gone cold.

 

He can’t let on, though, that inside he’s burning up so much he might not make it to Christmas Day alive.

:

Later, Liam, Nicola, and Diana are sitting in the lounge watching old episodes of Doctor Who, all of them with limited enthusiasm. Liam’s seen the episodes before, Nicola’s hungover, and Diana wants Nico’s attention. Liam slumps further down onto the floor, tipping his head against Nicola’s knee. She cards her fingers through his hair with distraction, tipping her own shoulder against Diana’s.

His mobile buzzes in his pocket but he ignores it for a bit, enjoying the fact that he has absolutely no responsibilities or duties right now except to sit on the floor by his sister’s knee and let her be kind to him.

It reminds him of childhood, but in a good way. Having big sisters is like having extra parents, Ruth once told him, because they love extra-hard and also they’re judgmental. Her words, not his, so he doesn’t think it’s sexist to remember it now or to cite it as gospel.

Eventually Nicola has to use the toilet and Diana decides to make some tea for all of them, and Liam remembers to check his phone.

_what, so now you’re the ghost of xmas present, is it?_

_what’du mean?_ Liam thumbs out in response, eyebrows knitting together, worries flooding back over his shoulders.

_leaving like that_

And then he gets the implication, the pun, in Zayn accusing Liam of ghosting, of leaving him grey and dry and alone. He runs one hand through his doubtless-messy hair and studies the words on the screen. Leave it to Zayn to try to be clever with it, given that he’s dead clever and annoyingly so. But also leave it to him to be spot-on in a way Liam hasn’t been able to name quite so surely.

He feels like a fucking ghost. He’s dust and ashes, pulling Zayn down with him into the flames, turning him towards his half-ghost existence, too. Of course, Louis’ the real ghost in this scenario, literally and figuratively—he’s death and smoke and he’s the thing they so rarely talk about.

 _Thing._ Liam almost punches himself in the throat for thinking that Louis is a thing. He’s not a thing, really, he’s a person and an idea and a marvel and he’s goddamn _everything._

Louis’ a ghost, and a ghost isn’t a thing.

Liam’s a ghost, and a ghost isn’t a thing. He’s nothing.

 

_fuck off_

 

Liam forces his family to watch the Muppets Christmas Carol that evening, and he spikes everyone’s cocoa.

Ru snorts after taking a sip of her drink. “You’re some kind of stupid, Li. But I think it’s the best kind.”

:

Christmas Eve is its own bizarre affair, with Liam’s parents and siblings and sibling-in-law and Diana and three neighbours, one of whom bring a pre-teen who insists on making googly-eyes at Liam from across the dining table. She’s still in the adorable stage of awkward, but Liam really feels for her, because he predicts she’s headed into a few years of torment and tears, based on her clumsiness alone.

He’s not really one to judge on appearance, except he absolutely is when it comes to looking at old photos of himself. He was an awkward prepubescent and adolescent until he grew into his bones and limbs and figured out a flattering hairstyle wherein his fringe didn’t sit entirely flat against his forehead. He didn’t feel confident until he learned how to run and how to use his body for a great purpose, rather than just hating his cheeks or his knock-knees. Andy always laughed when he tried to explain it, chocked his feelings up to endorphins and adrenaline whenever Liam said that running made him feel like he had a real talent worth something. 

Running helped him forget that no one outside of Andy gave a damn about him at college, that the only warmth and connection he felt required him to hide in the park or find an abandoned public toilet, that his big sisters still ruffled his hair like he was a baby. He had a crap childhood in some ways, and a decent one in other ways, and running made him feel great when he would otherwise have felt terrible.

But the preteen across from him, who he’s not judging based on appearance, is not going to have an easy go. The intense stare she’s giving him is bordering on serial-killery, for starters, and if she wasn’t a gangly twelve-year-old wearing a reindeer jumper, Liam might actually fear for his safety.

Her face also flushes every time Liam so much as glances up. Inevitably, both Ruth and Nicola notice, and since they’re both relatively kind human beings, they don’t outright laugh. Ruth gives him sad eyes, no doubt knowing exactly what he’s thinking. Nicola leans over to say something to Diana before downing the rest of her glass of Merlot.

The adults—well, actually, calling them _adults_ is a bit ridiculous, because he and his sisters are adults, too, but he’ll always be a child when he’s in his childhood home—are ignorant to the plight of the younger subset in the room. Which Liam supposes is just so very typical.

He heaves a sigh internally, not wanting to be shitty and awkward to a literal child. He has no current partner to speak of, and if he makes up a lie, his family will hound him about it for years. Bringing up Zayn is both a lie and too painful, and this is absolutely the last sort of situation he wants to expound about his grief over Louis. He could just scream _I’m GAY!_ and storm out like the angst-filled nutjob he feels like, but that isn’t particularly Christmasy.

So instead, he stews, just for a minute.

“Pardon,” he requests, pretending he’s heading to the toilet but instead heading out back so he can smoke a cigarette. His lungs light aflame with even the thought of it, but he’s not in a place to analyze that. He sits down on the rocky retaining wall of the back garden, fishing out his half-pack and the cheap lighter he doesn’t remember buying.

He smokes two before Ruth comes out to bring him back inside, and even though she does it kindly, he feels reprimanded.

“Awright?” she asks, standing in front of him, nicking the cigarette from his mouth so she can take a drag.

“Twelfth person to have asked me that this week,” he tuts, taking out another fag, lighting it expertly, because that’s something he’s learned to do now.

“It’s not that I don’t c—”

“I know you care.” He exhales and closes his eyes. In his pocket, his mobile buzzes. “Goddamn.”

Ruth snorts. “Sounds like that might be important.”

“Hope not.” He stares into the middle-distance, avoiding her face.

She shrugs, stubbing out the stolen cigarette. Then she leans over to take the one that Liam has clamped in the side of his mouth, stubbing it out too. “Captive audience, yeah?”

Liam shrugs, at a loss now that his hands have nothing else to do.

He refuses to go back inside until Ruth does, but he follows directly on her trail out of duty and love and devotion, plus she’s his sister.

:

He ignores four more buzzing text messages but accepts full wine glasses from Nicola and random pieces of Quality Street thrown at his face by Ruth. His mum offers cuddles that make him feel uncomfortable, and his father is a stilted version of affectionate as they all shuffle into the lounge to light a fire and have after-meal drinks.

Liam refuses brandy because he has a least a little bit of sense left. Instead he makes a vodka-soda and settles down on the floor, letting the adults—well—letting the older people take the couch and chairs. He likes the floor, because he can spread out without touching anyone, pillowing his head on his own arms.

He moves towards the ottoman Ruth refuses to sit on (because she once vomited on it and the idea of that grosses her out) and leans against it, as his dad props his legs up on it. He takes out his phone and ignores the incoming messages, instead pulling up old photo albums to scroll through.

He loves to make himself hurt and hurts with how much he loves, still.

His eyes fill up more than once before he sets his phone aside.

:

He falls asleep sloppily and wakes up just after two in the morning, just to read his messages.

They don’t do anything to help him get back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost wrote Christmas Even rather than Christmas Eve. Ah well, late-night writing.
> 
> And everyone remembers that Liam used to run right?! And he almost made the Olympic team?!
> 
> In other news, my family had to put down our beloved pupperino this evening, and I'm in a terrible place about it. Tell me something nice.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


	10. _

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> his love

Liam wakes up with his mobile suction-sealed to his right cheek, between his skin and the fabric of his pillowcase. Removing it from his sweaty flesh is deeply unpleasant.

When he thumbs on the glass of his screen, he sees four new messages. He groans, throwing it across the room, where it lands harmlessly on the carpet by his door.

Somehow, that makes him feel worse. He wants it broken.

Part of this is because Zayn refused to stop texting him that Christmas Eve is Louis’ birthday and that’s significant, as if Liam doesn’t fucking know about Louis and what’s significant in their lives.

He’s also annoyed because his call to Lottie went unanswered, but that’s old hat lately. She never seems to answer him anymore. He supposes that one of the messages could be from her, but it seems like slim chances.

Knowing it’s Christmas Day, he pretends to be a presentable adult, slipping into tartan flannel bottoms and a henley top. He heaves a sigh and drops towards his duffle so he can dig out his dwindling pack of cigarettes and the lighter he shoved into the cardboard.

Liam thinks even Louis is ashamed of him right now, but he _doesn’t much care. ___

__His eyes well up, because it’s a lie that he doesn’t care. He cares too much, so much that his lungs and chest burn with it, even before he lights up the cigarette. He smokes it to the filter without a second thought, though, easy as anything._ _

__:_ _

__Liam calls Felicite later that day, leaving her a message that doesn’t feel like a lie._ _

__He does miss her. He does wish her the best. He does want to know how all the twins are, all four of them. He does want her to have a happy holiday._ _

__He absolutely doubts that she’ll be able to have a happy anything for years, the same way he himself is completely goddamn miserable almost all the time. After he leaves the message, he plugs his phone into the charger in his room and heads back downstairs, glad that the screen is face-down on his carpeting._ _

__:_ _

__As far as gifts go, Liam gets an external disc drive for his computer, something he’s wanted for quite a while. He also gets a new duvet-cover, two hoodies, and a new cover for his mobile. It seems like his family knows his needs, even if they may not know him to the extent he wants them to. Maybe._ _

__He keeps retreating to the toilet and to his room, not just to check if he has new messages but also to just take a goddamn breather, for just one singular minute. Fizzy eventually sends him a soulless _thanx_ and Lottie still has nothing on his screen, but Zayn has five-in-a-row messages._ _

__All Liam can do is sigh._ _

__:_ _

__His mum has lately bought quite a few colouring books from local crafting stores, collecting them in decorative baskets throughout the house. Mostly they’re nestled on the floor in the corners of various rooms, which is something Liam’s pretty sure his mum got from his gran._ _

__What Liam got from his gran is a strong desire to deny that absolutely anything is wrong, ever, and the ability to play poker pretty damn well. But she and his granda are on a cruise this holiday, so Liam’s actually indulging in the brandy. And he’s _colouring.__ _

__He’s flat on his stomach on the floor of the lounge, a colour-pencil tight in his fist, when his dad walks in. He’s got a plate of something and a mug of something, and it looks so domestic that Liam might scream. He looks up at his dad and snaps the pencil in half, and still he might scream._ _

__His dad sighs, settling onto the sofa. “What’ve you got there, son?”_ _

__Liam drops his head down onto the page. “Dunno. Some stupid shi—something ridiculous I found over there.” He gestures vaguely with one arm, flopping it down onto the floor._ _

__“Proper artist, then?”_ _

__He snorts. “Hardly.”_ _

__“Ah well. Take after me then, I suppose.”_ _

__Liam lifts his head up and turns to face his dad. “That wouldn’t be so bad, though.”_ _

__“No?” He lifts a fork to his mouth and Liam sees that he’s eating some kind of pound cake or fruitcake or something cake-like._ _

__“No. Of course not.” He rolls over so that he’s on his side. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”_ _

__His dad actually considers this question. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He wordlessly hands over the mug, which happens to be full of warm mulled wine, and Liam accepts it gratefully._ _

__“Ta.” He changes positions so that he’s cross-legged, upright, so that he can drink the wine. “How’d you know, though?”_ _

__His dad snorts. “No clue, my love. I just listen to my gut, and my gut says good things.” He takes a bite of cake but stops mid-chew. “Can I have a sip of that wine?”_ _

__:_ _

__It seems that Liam’s territory is now the floor, because the rest of the family crowds around him onto the furniture. He doesn’t, in the moment, hate that he feels a bit like a child right now, because the notion is one of comfort. He’s also full of more mulled wine than he would like to admit, and his family’s food sits heavy in his stomach._ _

__Nicola tosses a blanket over him at one point, minimally indulgent as she is, before cuddling into Diana’s side. Liam wraps himself in it and goes back to colouring._ _

__:_ _

__The trip back to his flat is miserable. He stops up his ears with both earbuds, because he absolutely doesn’t want anyone approaching him this time, and he’s mostly rewarded with figurative silence. He’s got his hometown podcast raging in his ears, and that’s enough. He doesn’t want anyone talking about the weather or flirting with him aimlessly or asking about their next destination._ _

__Liam hates trains._ _

__:_ _

__His flat is dusty when he gets back, which he probably should have expected. His mum stocked his duffle with necessities, like a jar of homemade blackberry preserves, dryer sheets, and a twelve-pack of white briefs._ _

__He tosses his bag to the side as soon as he gets inside the door, and immediately lets out a scream-shriek when he sees movement down the corridor. “Fucking A, Zed, what are you doing here?”_ _

__“I left my phone charger,” Zayn says, rounding his way out of the kitchen, holding his mobile aloft._ _

__“So you broke into my flat.” Liam sighs and drops onto his sofa, unsurprised by most things lately._ _

__“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”_ _

__“How’s your family then?”_ _

__“They’re fine.” Zayn pads into the room and sits down in Louis’ favourite armchair. “Yours?”_ _

__“Fine.”_ _

__“I kind of hate you, you know.”_ _

__Liam begins to chuckle, and it turns into a hard, heavy laugh. “You have no idea, do you?”_ _

__Zayn runs both hands through his hair before rubbing at his nose. Then he sighs. “I do.” He moves his hands to the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head without a word._ _

__“Come here, then.” Liam clenches his jaw and bites at his lip, watching Zayn. He looks a bit skinnier, but he might also be sucking in his stomach. Liam’s not totally sure._ _

__Zayn settles into Liam’s lap and rucks down his trackies and pants, working violently at his cock without saying anything more, without touching his chest or his face or his hair. Liam knocks his head back against the sofa and rides out the feeling, letting Zayn bite into his neck and shoulder, letting teeth pierce his skin._ _

__:_ _

__They wake up on the floor, which Liam is used to, but Zayn appears disoriented. He’s got on pants but nothing else, while Liam is nude, curled with his head against a pillow._ _

__“Fuck,” Liam groans. “I fucking missed you.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a stream-of-consciousness weird piece of shit, but it means a lot to me that you're all reading it
> 
> also, go listen to Kesha's "Boots"
> 
> my tumblr: musiclily


	11. _-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRETEND THE KINK NEGOTIATION TAKES PLACE OFF-SCREEN PLEASE

“I missed you too, arsehole,” Zayn grumbles, not opening his eyes. He rolls over and smacks Liam in the face with his one arm, although the action seems accidental. “Don’t need more ghosts in my life, innit? Don’t do that shit to me.”

“What, now we’re getting sentimental? Where’s the dick who broke into my flat and told me he hates me?”

“’ve got layers.” He opens one eye and narrows it a bit, taking in the image of Liam before him. “Unlike you, apparently, who’s wearing absolutely nothing.”

Liam stretches, watching Zayn watch the muscles in his abdomen flex. “Woke up like this.”

Zayn closes his eyes again and groans, pillowing his face in his folded arms. “I swear to god, if you say that you’re flawless, I will jump off the roof of this building.”

He hums a bit, standing up. “Doubtful. Tea?”

“Are you going to put on pants first, or do I have to be worried that you’ll spill boiling water on your junk?”

“If you’re convinced that one layer of fabric can protect my dick from boiling water, I think you have a basic misunderstanding of the human capacity to withstand pain,” Liam mutters as he pads down the corridor.

“No I don’t!” Zayn calls out to him, and Liam can hear him scrambling to his feet. “I’ll have you know I have a vast knowledge of the human ability to withstand pain,” he grinds out as he enters the kitchen.

“Treading on dangerous territory, there, mate.” Liam flips on the kettle and opens his cabinet, knowing he has absolutely nothing worth eating in his entire flat, because he got too distracted by Zayn and fucking on the floor to go grocery shopping.

“Oh, am I?” Zayn stalks over to Liam and crowds him against the counter, slamming the cabinet door shut. “Don’t think so. Think I can get away with whatever I want, actually, when it comes to you.”

It’s such a ridiculous, bold-faced lie that Liam starts laughing. He grabs Zayn by the waist and spins them so that Zayn’s the one crowded against the counter. He presses in hard, knowing the sharp edge of the counter is pressing hard against Zayn’s lower back. He wants it to bruise.

He ducks in, sucking hard on the spot where Zayn’s neck meets his shoulder, biting and licking over the lovebite that’s already there. He feels vessels pop underneath his lips and teeth, and he hums against the warmth of Zayn’s skin. He levers in with his hips, pinning Zayn in place, and grabs both of Zayn’s wrists in his hands, clasping them hard. He can easily wrap his hands around Zayn’s thin wrists, and he can feel the looseness of the tendons as he closes his fists.

He moves his mouth away from Zayn’s neck and drags his lips slowly up to Zayn’s ear. He bites on the lobe and clenches his hands even tighter against Zayn’s wrists. “Tell yourself whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart, but you woke up on the floor of _my_ flat and I can kick you out whenever I want.”

Zayn swallows, which Liam feels rather than sees. “Then why haven’t you, hm? If you’re so powerful and mighty, and all.” Hs stiffens slightly, pulling against Liam’s fists without real animosity.

Liam lets go just as the kettle sounds, moving out of Zayn’s personal space just enough that he can make eye contact. He gives Zayn a small smirk and is a little gratified that Zayn looks nervous. “Because I’m not done with you yet. That’s why.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn grinds out, shoving against Liam’s shoulders. Liam laughs and walks out of the room without making himself any tea, leaving Zayn to fend for himself. He starts the shower and gets in while the spray is still cold, chuckling slightly.

He waits a few moments, and he can hear Zayn shuffling around outside, since the door is open and the shower isn’t terribly loud. He holds his breath until he hears the front door of his flat slam closed, when he starts laughing again.

:

Liam opens the door three days later after he hears a full minute of frantic knocking. Sighing heavily, he lets Zayn into his flat. “What, not breaking in this time? Why the self-restraint?”

Zayn tips his head to one side. “Restraints. Interesting.” He shakes his head roughly, meeting Liam’s gaze, walking further into the flat. “Not the point. Look, okay, I’m not playing this game. You either want me here or you don’t, and until you stop jerking me around, I’m—I’m not—”

Liam kicks the door shut with one foot, rounding on Zayn. “You’re not what? Not doing this? I think you are. Seems like you are, anyway.” He crosses his arms over his chest, not just because it emphasizes the flex of his biceps.

“Do you want me here or not?”

Liam shrugs, arms still firmly crossed. “Haven’t kicked you out, have I?”

“Are you going to?”

“Nah.”

Zayn deflates a bit, exhaling and inhaling again slowly. “Good. Okay, good.” He spins a bit, surveying the room as though actually seeing it. “I got—I’ve gotta tell you, I can’t stop thinking—” He stops, gasping a bit, gulping for air.

Liam waits, refusing to finish the thought or put words into Zayn’s mouth for once. He watches as Zayn struggles for words, as he fiddles with the belt-loop on his broken-in skinnies, as he paces around Liam’s flat where Louis once lived.

“In your kitchen,” he finally says, as if that explains the whole fucking thing, as if that’s reason enough for him to be here.

“In my kitchen,” Liam agrees, waiting for clarification, arms still crossed.

“I don’t know!” Zayn throws his arms into the air before carding one hand through his hair harshly.

“Well I don’t know! I have no idea what you’re on about!” Liam yells, stalking over to Zayn, grabbing both his wrists and squeezing them tight. He backs Zayn against the wall, shoving into Zayn’s ribcage and stealing the air from his lungs. Zayn’s eyes flutter shut and he adopts a strange, blissed-out smile. Slowly, Liam cottons on, his chest pressed hard against Zayn, his hands clamped hard onto Zayn’s bony wrists. “Oh.” _Oh._ He licks his lips and stills himself from head to toe. “Yeah? You like that? Look at you, yeah, you do. Yeah you fucking do.” He tightens his grip on Zayn, no doubt digging into already-existing bruises.

Zayn snorts out a small laugh, eyes still shut. “Fuck you. All I—” He stutters a bit, stumbles over his words. “All I can think of is you tossing me around like a doll. Throwing me over your shoulder like a goddamn Neanderthal and carrying me off, like. Or, holding me down and just doing—” He sighs quietly, opening his eyes, which are gathering moisture in the corners.

Liam finishes that thought for him. “Doing whatever I want with you?”

Zayn tries to move, but Liam’s hands hold him still. “Yeah.”

“And?”

Zayn blinks. “What do you mean, and? And what?”

“And what do you think’s gonna happen, then? I’m gonna toss you into a fireman’s carry and take you to my room, drop you onto my bed? Hold you down so you can’t get away, so that getting away is the last possible thing you can imagine? Hold you so tight around your waist, so your hips have handprints for a week? Yank you up into a chokehold that has you seeing stars? Yeah, pretty boy? Maybe make you put your hands together, wrap my belt around your wrists so only I get to touch? Hm? So you won’t even get to grab at the sheets while I fuck you, yeah, you just have to take it however I give it? Yeah? You think I could make you forget your own name?”

Zayn’s nostrils flare, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes in full-force now. He swallows. “You’re hurting me,” he whispers.

“Damn right, babe. You fucking missed me.” Liam plants a wet, sloppy kiss on Zayn’s right cheekbone and backs away, watching Zayn’s body go slack against the white wall of his flat.

Zayn fucking _whimpers._ “Tease.”

Liam rolls his eyes, unbuckling his belt. “Maybe I’ll put this around your goddamn mouth instead, hm? The talking thing gets a little old.”

“Just cuz you’re a dumb Neanderthal doesn’t mean you need to hate the intellectuals among us,” Zayn stammers, swallowing hard, casting his eyes up wildly.

“Or maybe I should put your mouth to work. Might be nice to watch you choke a little. Finally get some goddamn peace and quiet, except for you crying and gagging.” He finishes unbuckling his belt and whips it out of his beltloops, snapping it for emphasis. “Yeah, that might be nice.”

Zayn nods, his back still flush against the wall.

Liam considers Zayn, the pink of his cheeks and the water in his eyes. “Yeah, pretty boy? You want me to hurt you?”

Zayn nods again.

“All right, then.” Liam smiles, cracking his knuckles. “Ready, set, go.”

 

 

For all his big talk and bravado, Liam has some nerves tightening in his belly, but he admires the way that Zayn gives up trust and faith to him, looks at him like he can solve all the world’s problems. He stalks over to Zayn and hands him his belt. “Keep tight on this for a bit, yeah?” he demands, cupping Zayn’s arse with both hands. “Now up.” Zayn holds Liam’s belt in one hand and his shoulder in the other, jumping up to wrap his legs around Liam’s waist. “There you go, easy as anything. I got you.”

Zayn nods. “Y-yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, pretty boy?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Now I’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up.”

Zayn’s cheeks blush a deeper shade of pink and his eyes fall shut again. One tear spills onto his cheek. He nods.

“Yeah?” Liam prompts, carrying Zayn towards his bedroom. “You can do that for me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m trusting you, babe.”

Zayn nods frantically, but can’t help snorting a bit as he bounces when Liam tosses him onto the bed.

Liam sighs, looking at him. “Damn. I am going to need to tie you down, aren’t I?”

Zayn twitches, face going redder than Liam’s ever seen. “What?”

All Liam does is laugh.

:

Zayn doesn’t leave for another twenty-odd hours, bruised and sated and probably calmer than Liam’s seen him in a while. He takes a pocket of toast with him and lights up a cigarette at the door. “I’ll see you soon?” he asks, voice small.

“Wait!” Liam calls, digging into the pile of crap he keeps by the door. Finally, he tosses Zayn a key.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re not locking me up in cuffs or anything right now, idiot. I need to leave.”

Liam rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh. It’s a key to my flat.”

Zayn drops both the key and his lit cigarette. “You fucking dipshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware that the titles I’m using for my chapters are basically ridiculous versions of Roman Numerals okay.
> 
> And yes, I am aware that this chapter is a really ridiculous cocktease of hurt emotions and devastation!!!


	12. _--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's already gone

“No. I refuse.” Zayn bends down to pick up his burning cigarette, leaving the key where it landed.

“You broke into my flat the other day, but this isn’t acce—”

“No, this isn’t acceptable, for your information. I have to go to work.” Zayn clamps his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and heads for the stairs.

“You’re an idiot!” Liam calls out after him.

“Duly noted!”

:

Liam seals the key into an envelope and mails it to Zayn, no note or letter included.

:

It shows back up a bit later in a nondescript brown box that contains two smaller, nondescript brown boxes in sequence, with the key in the smallest of the three.

“Such an idiot.” Liam sighs, slipping the key into a slot in his wallet. He carries the boxes into his kitchen and methodically shreds them into very tiny pieces. When he’s done, he has three bleeding cuts and two of his fingertips are numb, but he feels a bit more grounded.

His entire flat is a tip but he kind of wants to see if he can browbeat Zayn into helping him clean it. He’s actually and finally stocked his kitchen, mostly with dented half-off Tesco sandwiches and frozen pizzas.

His standard of living has changed in many unexpected ways since Louis died, and he always knew that food would be a fairly fundamental one. He snorts to himself, sweeping his pile of cardboard nearer to the rubbish bin. _Food_ means comfort and health and love, Louis always said, and sometimes love means empty, meaningless calories. 

Food means creating something stupid and stupendous out of so very little, Louis always said, usually before throwing a potato or a leek at Liam’s head.

 

“Why are you the way that you are?” Liam once asked, doubled over in laughter and covered in almond flour because Louis never knew how to resist being ridiculous.

Louis didn’t answer right away, an unusual concept for him on a good day. And it was a good day. Then he sighed. “Because you love me, and I love you. And that makes us our best selves, doesn’t it?”

“What, love?”

“Yeah, love,” Louis scoffed, like Liam was the stupidest person in the room, but also like he was teasing.

“Love made you put cayenne in my morning tea, then, was that it?” Liam asked, flicking a bit of flour directly into Louis’ nose.

“Nah, babe, that was just for the laugh of the thing!” Louis squawked, jumping onto Liam’s back. “Well. Not that the distinction’s so wide, though, right? Between love and a laugh.”

“Guess no. Not with us.”

“No. Not with us.”

 

_come over_ he texts, knowing this message is one he’ll actually get a satisfactory reply to.

Most likely.

 

By the time Zayn gets there, Liam is prepared. He has a bulldog puppy nestled on his sternum, underneath his shirt, because she seems to enjoy being wrapped up and she’s small enough that it looks kind of funny. Her head is poked through the collar of his shirt, underneath his chin, and in the photos Liam keeps taking, they look like a mythical creature.

“What the fuck, mate?”

“Isn’t she cute? I keep calling her Maya, but she doesn’t really have a name yet.”

“That’s because she’s too small to be away from her mother!” Zayn crows, clambering onto the floor in front of Liam, face drawn and pale.

“Nah, she’s just the runt. She is perfectly fine.” Liam laughs as he hears her snuffle.

“She is?” Zayn holds out a hesitant hand, stroking against her small nose.

“Well, the family who thought of taking her can’t, actually, because their little boy has a pretty intense allergy, actually, so I’m fostering her. For now.”

“What does _for now_ mean?” Zayn asks next, moving his finger to her floppy ear.

“Whatever I want it to mean,” Liam responds, rolling his eyes. “You wanna hold her?” Liam untucks her from his shirt and hands her over, laughing as Zayn appears increasingly panicked. “You’re a fucking natural, you are.”

“Ha-very-ha. I never really had pets growing up, okay?” Zayn curls her up in the crook of his elbow, holding her like a baby.

“Likely story.” Liam grabs his mobile and thumbs open the camera, taking a burst of photos. The pictures are the cutest goddamn thing he’s seen lately. “Stop bitching, you’ll go viral if you post literally any single one of these online.”

Zayn’s face lights up. “Yeah?” He snuggles Maya to his cheek, mugging for the camera.

“God, you’re an idiot.”

“But a pretty one, right?”

Liam rolls his eyes, setting down his mobile. “Yeah, whatever. If it makes you feel better about yourself, you’re the prettiest idiot I know.”

:

He slips his flat-key onto a ring and then onto a thin chain, dropping it into the right pocket of Zayn’s skinnies while he’s asleep with Maya curled up on Liam’s pillow, her little body knotted in Zayn’s hair.

He also takes another burst of photos, feeling like a voyeur but also like he doesn’t give a shit.

:

The next morning, Liam makes Zayn take Maya out onto the pavement in front of the flat for a wee, but they both take her out for her mid-morning walk through the nieghbourhood. It’s grey and overcast, and fucking freezing to boot, but Liam doesn’t entirely hate it. Part of that might be because Zayn hasn’t thrown the key into his face, perhaps due to good luck or to Zayn being too distracted by Maya to pay attention to anything frustrating.

Zayn is the one to carry her up the stairs towards Liam’s flat, hustling her into Liam’s arms while he grabs a towel to dry off her paws. “You’re kind of over-doing this, you know!” Liam calls, standing just inside the doorway of his flat.

“She’s your kid, not mine! And I’m not having her taken away for neglect just because you live off of beer and whippets!”

Liam huffs slightly, taking off his coat one-handed so he can hold Maya in the other hand. He tosses his coat onto the floor and wordlessly tucks Maya back inside his shirt, heading in to turn on the telly. His shirt and chest both get wet before Zayn even gets back, but he doesn’t mind, because he’s already turned on the second Iron Man film and nothing much else is important.

Zayn eventually wanders in, and Liam hears him set something down on the table before he drapes a bath towel over Liam’s entire body. The gesture is weirdly wholesome, particularly with Maya nuzzling against his neck.

He falls asleep to two sounds: Zayn opening a beer and a camera-shutter going off.

:

“I’m not doing this, you know,” Zayn eventually says, flicking Liam in the forehead with a finger.

“Yes, you are.” Liam has no idea what they’re talking about, and he refuses to open his eyes.

“I’m leaving now, and I’m not taking this thing with me.”

“I already put a copy in your pocket.”

“This _is_ the copy from my pocket.”

Liam adopts a smug smile, eyes still tight-shit. “That’s the only one you’ve found? Hm.”

Zayn growls.

“You’re way too easy, mate,” Liam says easily, cracking open his right eye. “Come here, have a cuddle.”

Zayn exhales heavily, scowling.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He continues to pout. “No.”

“I said, come here. Now.”

Zayn huffs, settling into Liam’s chest and lap, careful not to crush Maya. “I hate you so much.”

“I’m aware. Now please shut up and let me go back to sleep.”

“How about you stop telling me what the fuck to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I put off watching the very last episode of Six Feet Under for literally YEARS and I just watched it tonight, and HEY, guess what, I’m openly weeping as I type this. Otherwise everything’s more or less fine, if my therapist is the authority to go by. That’s what she said this evening, anyway.
> 
> COMMENT AND CRITIQUE, MY LOVES and maybe recommend something happy I should watch? I’m kind of over this death knell thing I keep subjecting myself to.


	13. _---

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stories

Zayn leaves the key behind when he goes to off to work, and Liam doesn’t protest too hard. Not right now. He goes to the shelter to pick up the dogs he’s begun referring to as his _pack of roving wolves_ so that he can walk them along with Maya. Viola coos at both Liam and Maya, handing over a baggie of treats along with the necessary number of leashes.

He ends up walking them so long that he needs to carry Maya, glad that the other dogs are older because he doesn’t have room in his arms for more than two. When he gets back, Viola tells him that Pete’s been happily adopted.

His eyes well up with tears, and he hates himself for the fact that he’s not immediately flush with happiness and is instead filled with ambivalence. His ambivalence then turns into jealousy and frustration, and that’s how he knows it’s time to go home.

:

For the first time in a long time, Liam goes to Zayn’s flat, which is nearly as much of a tip as Liam’s is, but Zayn owns fewer clothes and many more cans of spray-paint. Liam refuses to comment on the state of the place, preferring to launch himself at Zayn as soon as he answers the door.

He immediately grabs for Zayn’s hair, which looks different than it did the last time he saw Zayn—the sides are shorn short, shaved close against his scalp. It looks good, which pisses Liam off a little bit, but also entices him to yank a bit rougher at Zayn’s remaining locks.

“Fucking hell, why are you doing this to me?” he mutters, ducking down to kiss Zayn’s cheekbone, rubbing one thumb against the stubble along his jaw.

“Cut out the persecution complex, yeah?” Zayn demands, flinging his arms up so he can break contact with Liam. It’s effective, and Liam backs away quickly. “I wanna, like. Talk.”

Liam blinks. “You wanna talk.” He shrugs. “Okay. About what?”

“I don’t—see. The thing is.”

Liam licks his lips, raising a brow. For how articulate Zayn often is, and for how amazing his vocabulary is, and for how dead-clever he keeps reminding Liam he is, he’s frequently a shit communicator. “Yeah. I’m just gonna—” Liam gestures to the couch and slowly moves towards it, sitting down while maintaining eye contact with Zayn. “Okay. Go.”

“Can we, um.”

“Do you want to sit too?” Liam asks in a quiet voice, his head going silent as well. He knows that Zayn needs something from him, and he has absolutely no idea what it is.

“Do I want to, or will I?” Zayn asks, quirking up the right side of his lip.

“Fine. Will you also sit down, if you would so kindly oblige,” Liam requests, rolling his eyes.

Zayn sits on the opposite end of the couch from Liam, sideways, so they can face one another.

“This is gonna be bad, isn’t it?”

This makes Zayn roll his eyes, but it also brings out a smile. “I mean, I dunno. I, uh. Can—can we talk about Louis?”

“About Louis?”

“About, like, his death. I just want to, like, understand it.”

“You want to understand death,” Liam deadpans.

“Fuck, no, not—” Zayn cards his hands through his hair, seemingly forgetting that he’s gotten half of it cut off. “His death. I want to understand _his_ death.”

“I don’t even really—”

“But like, how did it happen?”

Liam heaves a sigh. “I mean—chemo and radiation stopped working. Slowly, but then, like, quickly.” He swallows around the building lump in his throat, feeling like he’s going to gag.

“Okay.” Zayn nods. “And what does that mean?”

“He, uh—fluid built up around his lungs, and he eventually needed a shunt. Fuck, it all pissed him off so much, the shunt, and the coughing. He couldn’t sleep much, at the end, so I wasn’t sleeping either, but he was also always tired? This weird constant fatigue and hacking up—everything. I would—sometimes it sounded like he was coughing up blood, but it was always just like my weird, like, lucid dreams while he was dozing or whatever.”

“He never coughed up blood?”

“He never coughed up blood.” Liam shakes his head. “He lost a lot of weight, which he didn’t much notice. Um. I did, like, notice.”

Zayn swallows hard. “Was it painful?”

“For him or for me?” Liam snaps, punching one fist into the back of the couch.

Zayn gapes at him. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Liam grabs a pillow and gently presses his face into it, trying to calm his breathing. After a few minutes, he feels capable of speaking. “With the drugs and all, it wasn’t super painful. No. But he was weird and loopy.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Tell me—tell me everything, anything. I don’t know, I just, I don’t care. Anything.”

Liam rubs his nose. “He was weak, at the end. Physically, I mean, duh. He was always, like, you know, his mum called him a fighter, which he was. Which is why the whole deal pissed him off.”

Zayn’s eyes are wet, but he nods, twisting at the rings on his left hand. “I can imagine that.”

He sighs. “It was a fight to get him to wear the oxygen cannula, because he still wanted to smoke, even though you can’t do that in hospital regardless. We, uh. Fought a lot, at the end. He went out a fighter in a lot of ways, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“But it was, it was like stupid, right, it was about me pitying him, or me not letting him smoke, or me flirting with a nurse and shit.”

Zayn swipes at one eye, chuckling slightly. “You flirted with the nurses?”

“No I fucking didn’t, you arse! Of course not. Why would you even—” Liam clenches his jaw, eyes falling shut for a moment. “You’re joking. Aren’t you.”

“I was trying, yeah. Not a light subject, really.”

“Fucking hell. I hate you so much.” Liam swipes at his own eyes, curling in on himself, turning his body away from Zayn. He brings his knees up to his chest and tucks his face down, circling his arms around it all.

“Oh Christ,” Zayn mutters, and then he’s enveloping Liam in his scrawny arms, wrapping them around his neck. Their hips collide painfully just before Liam starts crying. “Hey, hey now. It’s okay.”

“It isn’t!” Liam shoves Zayn off, stalking away towards the toilet, which is the only room in Zayn’s flat with a lock. He slams the door shut and flips the lock, knowing it won’t withstand an actual onslaught but might withstand Zayn’s feeble poundings.

 

He falls asleep in the bathtub, and he wakes up with Zayn curled beside him, a few hand-towels strewn across their bodies. He sighs, shifting carefully so he doesn’t wake Zayn, before bodily lifting him so he can carry Zayn to the bedroom.

:

Liam drifts his fingers along the planes of Zayn’s face as dawn breaks through the dust-streaked window of Zayn’s bedroom. He runs a fingertip across Zayn’s stubble, snorting slightly when Zayn’s face flinches.

“Fuck off,” comes Zayn’s gritty voice.

“Nah.” He continues running his fingers over Zayn’s skin. “How’d you know, anyway?”

“Know what now.” Zayn grimaces, lashing a hand out to stop Liam from touching his face.

“That you’re gay or whatever.”

“I’m not gay or whatever. I’m bisexual.” He cracks one eye open, and it looks judgmental. “That’s not a whatever orientation, it’s a real thing.”

“Right, I know that.”

Zayn sighs, closing his eye again. “That’s not the point you were trying to make, was it.”

“No.”

“Or the question you were trying to ask.”

“Also no.”

“Do you want to get to it, or do I need to start?”

“You can if you want to.”

Zayn sighs, turning over so his back is to Liam. “I’ve always liked who I liked, and it freaked everyone out, okay? I gave Valentines to too many people and was too friendly on the playground, held hands indiscriminately. Plus, I’m, what, _brown_ on my dad’s side, as if that’s a thing, because no one can pronounce Pakistani or something.” Zayn huffs out a sigh.

“Bet the nose ring didn’t help,” Liam murmurs, trying to lighten things up, hoping he won’t get a smack in the face.

“I didn’t have the ring then, you dick,” Zayn laughs, running a hand through his hair again. His back is still to Liam, but Liam can trace the bones of his slender body with one hand.

“I used to fight them. The ones who knew, who figured out who I really was.” He presses a pointer finger into the back of Zayn’s jaw. “I hid otherwise. In parks, like. You know, toilets. Which was kind of hiding too. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Fighting worked, you know. And I liked it.”

Zayn makes a noise that Liam takes to mean he wants more information, even if that’s his own imagining.

Still, he continues. “I liked, you know, punching people. They thought they knew me, right? But I just—I ran away from that, literally, and I fought that, and it felt so shameful to me. For awhile.”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods, snuffling against his pillow. “Until Louis?”

“Yeah. Until Louis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some REALLY DEPRESSING research for this chapter and also launched far back into my adolescence when a family friend died of cancer and everyone lost their shit because FUCK CANCER.
> 
> And bisexuality is real, not a “whatever” orientation, thank you and good morning and good night. I know you all know this.
> 
> I'm not crying (yes I am)


	14. _----

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> intro

Liam pauses, considering his next question very carefully, knowing he has the power to wound. “Why didn’t you keep visiting him, towards the end? You were always there, it seemed like, at first, you know. It was kind of annoying, actually.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Zayn huffs out a breath, just barely. “Your face just got more and more thunderous as the weeks went on.”

“That—that wasn’t just me being upset you were there.”

“I’m aware. I’m not so self-involved as to think that my mere presence was the only reason you were having a rough go of it.” Zayn rolls his eyes and shoves his head under a pillow. Liam thinks he’s avoiding, and Liam knows avoiding. But his own wounds are raw and open right now, so he figures there’s no harm in pressing in, bearing down a bit. It’s not like he can make things worse.

“Well, as long as you realize it.” Liam stretches out, kicking off the blanket and duvet. He rolls on his side, away from Zayn, willing the cold air to temper the heat of his skin. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know.” His response is barely muffled despite his face being buried underneath his pillow.

“I answered all of yours.”

“I know.”

“You’d’ve known what the end was like, if you were there for it.”

“I fucking know!”

Liam tries not to smirk but can’t quite manage it. He finds it gratifying that he can get a rise out of Zayn, who has openly admitted he prefers to keep a cool exterior even in the face of emotional triggers. The assertion made Liam laugh directly in his face. He’s not sure that Zayn has internalized a fully accurate impression of himself. That thought alone might earn him a smack from Nicola about armchair-psychology, so he doesn’t think too hard on it. “So? Why’d you stop coming?”

Zayn sighs, pulling up the corner of the pillow so his mouth isn’t blocked. “Louis asked me to.”

“He _asked_ you to?”

“Demanded. There was yelling. Throwing of objects. Nurses called.”

Liam nods, rubbing one hand across his chest. “That was pretty par for the course after awhile. Not just with you, he was like that with everyone.”

“That’s not comforting,” Zayn mutters, covering his face back up with the pillow.

“Wasn’t meant to be comforting.” Liam swings his legs off the bed and stands up slowly, hoping he doesn’t get so lightheaded that he faints. It’s a near thing some mornings. “So, let me get this. He asked you to stop coming, and you just—did? You listened to him?”

“He was pretty persuasive as he was launching a vase of daisies at my head.”

“I did sorta wonder what happened to those.”

“Shit, did you give them to him?”

Liam bends down to pick up the t-shirt he discarded the night before. “No, the twins did, and Daisy kept smugly saying that it was so she would always be in the room with him.” He drops it back on the floor and moves towards a pile of Zayn’s clothes.

“God, that just makes it worse.”

“No one claims this shit is easy.” He finds a threadbare Metallica t-shirt that doesn’t smell outright of cigarettes, and he yanks it over his head. “Did he manage to hit you?”

“What?”

“With the vase.”

Zayn sits up, fully dislodging the pillow from his face. He moves to the edge of the mattress, lifting his face up so the light hits it as Liam turns around. Zayn flicks his fringe away from his forehead and angles his face up higher. Liam spots it then, just a small nick above his left eyebrow. “Aim wasn’t so great, really,” Zayn says, sending out a laugh that turns into a cough.

“And you made it sound so dramatic.” Liam moves in closer, tracing the scar with the pad of his pointer finger.

“It did bleed a lot,” Zayn concedes, pouting.

“Good thing you were in hospital, then. Bet that required four surgeons to piece and stitch back together, right?”

“Your sympathy is touching.” Zayn smacks his hand away, getting out of bed.

Liam flicks him. “What sympathy?” He steps into his jeans and pulls them onto his hips, noting that they’re getting looser than he tends to prefer. Wordlessly, he tightens his belt another notch. “I’m borrowing this shirt for work.”

“Yes, thanks for asking, you are more than welcome to my belongings,” Zayn adds, stepping into a pair of trackies.

“I know.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Right. Get out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah, all right.” He goes for a piss and leaves his key flat beside the sink.

:

Liam throws himself into business classes with a passion previously unseen, mostly because he’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t want to talk to Zayn. Work is dull but it keeps his body busy, and he needs that weariness in order to fall asleep at night.

If he doesn’t have weariness, though, he makes sure to have beer or whiskey to keep his eyes from opening. 

He cracks the screen of his mobile at one point because he hits it too hard in an attempt to shut off his alarm. Wearily, he resigns himself to heading back to the Apple store, thinking he’s cursing himself.

:

Liam spends way too much money, which is his usual protocol when it comes to electronics. When he gets home, he finds Zayn camped out on his sofa, watching Gogglebox.

“Turn it off.”

“No.” Zayn grabs the remote, turning up the volume.

“I said, turn it off.”

“And I said no.” Zayn throws the remote at him, and it flies easily past his shoulder.

Liam sighs, moving his hands down so he can take off his shirt. He tosses it to the side, watching Zayn become increasingly angry. He no longer has anything of substance to throw at Liam, which makes Liam smirk. “You heard me.”

“And I said no.” Zayn crosses his arms, and pulls his legs upwards underneath his body. He’s folded entirely into the corner of his couch.

“You didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t safeword out, but I said no.” Zayn exhales harshly out of his nose.

“That’s not the deal, is it?” Liam asks, crossing the room so he can trace one finger along Zayn’s jaw. “You know your safeword.”

“And I said no.”

“This isn’t a time to take you seriously, baby. It’s safeword or it’s nothing.” Liam slowly moves his hands to Zayn’s thighs, lowering them, opening Zayn up so he has access to his body. Liam moves down onto Zayn’s lap, pressing one hand against Zayn’s dick inside his skinnies. “You hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I hear you.” Zayn knocks his head back so it hits the back of the couch, opening up his throat so that Liam can lean in to kiss it hard.

“What’s your safeword?” Liam asks, nipping once against Zayn’s jaw.

“Red.”

“And what’s _slow-down?”_ he asks next, grinding down against Zayn’s cock, teasing him while mouthing against his neck.

“Amber.”

“And what’s _go?”_

“Green,” Zayn moans, arching up against Liam’s body.

“There you go, that’s so good,” Liam breathes, bracing both his arms around Zayn’s shoulders, settling them against the couch. “Get your cock out, babe. Yeah.” He watches Zayn scramble for the waistband of his trackies, rucking them down. “So hard for me, so good for me.”

Zayn sighs, biting at his bottom lip. “I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can,” Liam grinds out, clamping his arms tight around Zayn’s neck. “You can open me up, pretty boy. I bet you can do it so well.” He curves his left arm around to cup the back of Zayn’s neck, grinding down against Zayn’s hardening cock. “You definitely can.”


	15. _-----

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bigger and better than he was before

Once, Liam tried to teach himself to be bigger than one person, to take up enough space to do Louis’ memory justice. He tried to take up enough space for two of them, even when his insides were crumbling to ash. He deserved to be bigger than the body keeping him here when Louis wasn’t around anymore, he thought, if only as a tribute to Louis. He bounced back from every single extreme, feeling full-blown rage and manic desperation and despair that often threatened to take over his entire body.

He tried to learn to be larger than life, more important than death, to love with the intensity that Louis loved.

_And it didn’t work._

He and Louis had an all-encompassing love, a love that could make someone throw himself into the abyss without regret, and Liam wants that to mean something. He wants to mean something again.

Liam knows that he’s very often unreasonable, knows that he’s doing something called _bargaining,_ but fuck him all the same if he doesn’t indulge in it. Sometimes he even expects it to work, at least a little bit.

 

One random Thursday, when he looks at Zayn and sees a strange sort of glowing admiration that Zayn quickly shutters, Liam knows he has massively, massively fucked up.

:

 

Liam collects up the parts of his next two paychecuqes that don’t go to rent and meager little meals along with many bottles of beer, and he plans out an elaborate tattoo sleeve. He can’t design or draw for shit, only knows a few items he wants—and knows he can only really afford a piece or two at a time.

He settles for a skull on his left arm, ignoring the symbolism and plowing straight through into denial. James, the artist draws it up, designing the whole thing himself with minimal commentary from Liam, except for comments about colouring (grey, black, and white), animation style (semi-realistic), and placement (bicep).

As soon as the tattoo gun fires up, Liam’s spine relaxes and he melts into the leather backing of the chair, eyes falling shut. The tattoo takes nearly three hours to complete, and he can feel his arm swelling up, can feel the heat seeping outward from his skin as it pinks up beneath the grey ink.

He knocks his head back against the chair at one point, when the hurting urge gets too high. He keeps his eyes closed, savouring the feeling of external heat on his arm, rather than something burning him up from his bones on out.

“Aw’right?” James asks, pulling the gun away to add more ink.

“More than.” He’s not drunk or rolling, he’s just high on the pain of it, which is a sensation he doesn’t indulge much. He thinks maybe this is the time.

“Yeah? ‘F you say.”

He doesn’t even take a photo before James wraps up his arm, knowing that his sisters and mum hate the rest of his tattoos and will certainly hate this one too.

:

Liam’s arm is swollen for four days, and he refuses to send a photo to Ruth until it’s fully healed, no matter how much she wheedles him. Sometimes he doesn’t know why he tells her things, but other times he knows it’s because he loves her more than words.

His head keeps landing on his arm as he sleeps, only to make him wake up wincing.

Zayn sucks at his teeth when he sees it, trying to hide a smile. Then he smacks his lips, just once. “What’s its name then?”

Liam shrugs, wincing at the tight tug of his warm skin. “Haven’t figured that out yet. Open to suggestions.”

Zayn tips his head back, cackling. “As if you’d like any of my contributions,” he says, slapping at his knee like a pensioner, like Liam’s 80-year-old grandda.

“Oh?” Liam asks, tossing a bottle cap at him.

“Voldemort, Yorrick, Nic Cage, Pluto,” Zayn rattles off, easily dodging the cap.

“Those are all dude names.”

“Right.”

“This—she seems like a girl, is all.” Liam lifts his arm up, trying not to wince.

“Okay.”

 

He names his tattoo Morrigan, because some version of it means _queen_ according to his research, which is deeply unofficial.

Zayn slaps him boldly in the face following the announcement, which makes Liam laugh, too.

:

They go to Zayn’s pub later that night. Liam hasn’t been there in ages, and he’d accuse Zayn of being ashamed to be with him in public if he didn’t think Zayn might actually be ashamed to be seen with him in public.

Their drinks are steeply discounted if not outright free—Liam mostly only drinks for free when Zayn’s serving him—and they drink quickly enough that they’re both smashed in short order. The drink makes Zayn giggly rather than maudlin, and he sways in time to the music no matter what song plays over the tinny speakers. Liam just watches him, knowing his eyes have gone soft and crinkled around the edges the way they do when he’s feeling indulgent.

Even in the grimy light of the pub, Zayn looks like artwork—a real Greek statue, one with the paint still on, not worn away by time and distress. He’s got a touch of gold beneath his skin, and it shows the most when he’s not feeling self-conscious.

It’s showing now. Liam reaches out slowly to press a thumb to Zayn’s cheekbone, and Zayn doesn’t stop swaying. He just grabs onto Liam’s wrist, thin hand gripping it slack. He closes his eyes, lashes sending two grey shadows over his skin, and he smiles.

“You gonna dance with me?” he murmurs, lips still quirked up in a small smile.

“With you or for you?”

Zayn snorts, his eyes flying open. “As if you’d dance _for_ me.”

“I wouldn’t?” Liam twists his hand so it’s not ghosting over Zayn’s cheek anymore, twists it so he can grab Zayn’s wrist instead. He spins Zayn into a rather graceful twirl, drinks and abruptness of the gesture considered. “I might.”

Zayn laughs, pulling his arm away so he can move it to Liam’s shoulder, stabilising himself. He shimmies his hips slowly, biting at his bottom lip in an obvious go-to seduction ploy. “No, _I_ might. You’re a bit too chicken-shit, I reckon.”

“Uh!” Liam’s mouth falls open, and he thinks he might be offended, deep below his fuzzy drunkenness. “Rude.” He tries to keep a look on his face that implies he feels put-upon, but it doesn’t last long. “Nah, not for you, I’m not.” He thumbs along Zayn’s shimmering jaw.

“Not for me, you’re not what?” Zayn asks, distracted, still swaying a bit.

“Not chicken-shit.”

Zayn blinks slowly but then zeroes in on Liam’s eyes. “That remains to be seen.”

Liam’s chest clenches a bit, just a bit, right behind his sternum. “Come on, now. You’re breaking my heart.”

Zayn purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “Yeah.” Then he shrugs the suggestion off. “So what’dya say, then? Walk me home?”

:

 

Later that week, Zayn walks in on Liam shaving, the itchiness of his stubble now too much for him to handle. He startles initially before realizing that Zayn must have used the key that Liam left him. He chooses not to comment on it.

“Morning. You getting ready for work?” Zayn asks, eyes bright in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

“Yeah, what are you—” Liam freezes as Zayn presses against his back, roping his arms around Liam’s midsection. “I, uh. I was gonna ask, what are you up to, but it seems you’re—up to this, right now.” He makes eye contact with Zayn’s reflection, noting that Zayn’s pupils look blown-up and wide. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I dunno, mate, I can’t—I cleaned my entire flat this morning, right? But not just a _normal_ this morning, it was at like three a.m., and now I can’t remember where I put anything. I had to get out of there.” Zayn shudders, full-body, against Liam’s back, before pressing his left cheek against Liam’s shoulder-blade.

“Sure. All right.” Liam nods slowly, setting his razor down well away from Zayn’s reach. “Glad you came here,” he adds, wondering whether he needs to call A&E and Zayn’s parents about an involuntary psychiatric hold—but that’s his knee-jerk panic response, he knows, and he hopes it’s not anything he has a realistic need for. It’s just lately that he even has knowledge about involuntary medical treatment, and it only ever came up when Louis was being particularly immovable about his care. The process isn’t easy. “Did you, uh, take something weird?”

“No, no, but I keep having nightmares, so I can’t sleep, I just can’t do it, it doesn’t work, okay?” Zayn says, his voice going high-pitched and dangerous.

Liam turns around, which is a struggle given Zayn’s tight grip on his torso. He circles Zayn’s shoulders with both arms, leaning in to squeeze him tightly. “Hey now, it’s all right, yeah. You’re here now, and it’s going to be all right.”

Zayn goes instantly limp in Liam’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a skull tattooed on my right leg, Liam, don’t worry, I’m with you.  
> Her name is Morticia.
> 
> Also, I have a giant bruise on my left knee, and it’s been there for two weeks, and I don’t know where it came from. MYSTERIES of the drunk and sad! Starting my own television program, I am.
> 
> Btw I don’t have a beta for this story, mostly because I’m currently in need of immediate gratification and a high level of praise, and also because high turnaround is keeping me motivated. This piece of ridiculousness is already 70-odd pages, can you believe it? OF COURSE YOU CAN, you’ve been here all along.


	16. _------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> telling tales

Liam exhales under Zayn’s unexpected dead-weight, grabbing him carefully to lift him up and move him towards the bedroom. Zayn makes a squeaking noise and scrambles to tighten his arms around Liam’s neck, making the situation much more difficult. Liam attempts to drop Zayn onto the bed, but is thwarted by the tight grip he has around Liam’s neck.

“You’re choking me,” Liam murmurs, aiming for a patient tone and soft demeanour, neither of which he’s confident he actually pulls off.

Zayn huffs, but he finally lets go. He rolls his eyes as he flops on his back and his head lands on Liam’s pillow.

“Can—is it okay if I go get you some water?”

“No!” Zayn flings out an arm to grasp at Liam’s elbow. “Don’t need any fucking water.”

“Well, what do you need then? This one can’t be a guessing game, sorry, babe.” He pets at Zayn’s fringe ineffectually but gently, noting that Zayn’s forehead feels sweaty.

“Just—stay for a minute. Um, will you—on my chest, and like—” Zayn gestures vaguely, from his shoulders down.

Liam purses his lips, frowning in the way that he knows makes his eyebrows come together in the middle. “You want me to sit on you.”

Zayn groans, tossing his head back into the pillow.

“Fine, if that’s the way this morning’s going to go, I guess we might as well go there.” Liam knees his way onto the bed and straddles Liam’s hips, raising himself up so they’re not actually touching. He makes concentrated eye contact with Zayn and settles down slowly, pressing his arse against Zayn’s thighs. Then he leans forward, planting his open palms on Zayn’s slender ribs. “I’m just gonna—pressure.”

Zayn nods frantically, moving his arms behind his back so they lie flat beneath his own arse. He closes his eyes as Liam presses in, massaging slowly along his fragile-feeling chest. Liam moves his hands up onto Zayn’s shoulders, anchoring them in soundly.

“So, I think you’re maybe, just maybe, having a panic attack,” Liam suggests, moving his hands to Zayn’s collarbones, pressing in lightly enough that he won’t hurt Zayn but hard enough to ground him.

Zayn stills. “A panic attack?”

“Right.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m dying?”

“That’s, uh, kind of what panic attacks are like,” Liam says, pulling a face as he bears down hard on Zayn’s shoulders.

“How do you—”

“Now is not the time to know why I know, all right, babe? Just work on your breathing. In five, hold five, out five. Go.” He splays his hands back onto Zayn’s chest, feeling him breathe.

 

They wait it out together, and it doesn’t take too long for Zayn to calm his breathing down, eyes fluttering open and closed.

 

“There you go, yeah. Good job. You’re all right.” Liam keeps petting at him, mopping his hair, flicking away his sweaty fringe, seated hard down on top of Zayn’s hips. “Keep breathing.” He’s supposed to be at work soon, and his face is about half-shaved, but his attention is solely—here. “You’re okay, love.”

“Okay.” Zayn sighs, his eyes falling shut fully.

“You’re here with me, yeah? Talk to me, babe. Tell me where we are.”

“Your flat. Your bed. In your arms,” he huffs, shoulders melting backwards into the mattress.

“There you go. Now breathe. Keep that up, there you go. Breathing time, time to breathe. Good job.” Liam waits for Zayn to yell about not babying him, or about treating him like a child, but nothing comes out except slowly-gentling breaths.

“Thanks.” Zayn keeps breathing, and Liam keeps holding on.

 

Liam gets to work on time, and he leaves Zayn in his bed, finally and blissfully asleep.

:

After he gets off work, he heads back to his flat. Zayn’s still asleep, which Liam is grateful for. It gives him a chance to find some of his old benzos, hidden deep in the medicine chest. He sets the bottle by Zayn’s shoes and shucks off his shirt before scooting into his own bed beside Zayn, between him and the wall.

:

He wakes up to Zayn flicking his cheek with a finger.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Liam responds, one eye open, the other clamped tightly and stubbornly shut. “I currently hate you.”

“Because I woke you up?”

“Yes.” Liam flips his arm out, mostly to stop Zayn from flicking his face but also to block the light from hitting his eye.

“What’d you to me? To calm me down, like.”

“S’not magic or anything,” Liam replies, rolling towards the wall. “Just grounding and shit.”

“Just grounding and shit.”

Liam sighs. “So I never got individual counselling or anything, because fuck that, but there was this group, at hospital, and they sort of—had recommendations. For my panic attacks.”

“You had panic attacks?”

“Yeah.”

“Like mine.”

“Not exactly like, but they definitely fucking sucked,” Liam admits, voice growing cold. He doesn’t like to admit to things like this, and he especially hates talking about things like this, especially with his dad’s mocking if possibly well-intentioned voice in the back of his head.

He pauses for a moment to wonder exactly when he started questioning other people’s motives, but decides that box is too big to unpack at the moment. He focuses back in on Zayn. “I got meds, for a while.”

“Okay.”

“You can have mine, if you—”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” Zayn deadpans, rolling his eyes.

“Dramatic? What the fuck, you literally—you just had a panic attack in front of me!”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me.”

“You’re not a goddamn doctor. You haven’t been in counselling or anything. You’re just you.”

Liam suspects that Zayn is trying to be hurtful in order to hide his own vulnerability, but he’s also angry, and he deems his anger righteous. “Fuck you.” He bumps his shoulder against Zayn’s, hard, which is awkward when they’re both lying next to one another and awkward because they’re not being even remotely sexual right now.

“Really?” Zayn sounds disgusted, disdainful. “That’s what you want right now? You want to fuck.”

He heaves a heavy sigh, rolling out of his own goddamn bed. “And fuck you.” He pads his way to the bathroom and turns on the shower, mostly to drown out any potential reply from Zayn.

He receives none.

 

When he returns to his room, Zayn is asleep again, so Liam finds relatively-clean trackies and retreats to the lounge where he can watch telly without waking Zayn. He watches two old episodes of Black Mirror before becoming too horrified at the state of human nature, switching to Gogglebox, which isn’t too much better.

Eventually, Zayn wanders into the room, tossing a pillow at Liam’s face. “You left me alone.”

Liam has many replies on hand, like _better you than me_ and _we’re all quite alone, aren’t we?_ but he just gives Zayn a mullish look. “You basically kicked me out.”

“I didn’t.”

Liam sighs.

“Fine!” Zayn cedes, rolling his eyes high. “I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not.”

Zayn sighs, crumpling down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “No. I’m not.”

“I was just trying to help you. With the nightmares, and the insomnia, and the—panic stuff.”

Zayn looks stricken, his jaw working back and forth as he seemingly figures out what to say. “And what exactly do you think I’m trying to do with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These techniques are called GROUNDING and DEEP PRESSURE in case you were wondering! Grounding is about recognizing the surrounding environment and anchoring yourself into reality. Deep pressure is pretty much a sensory thing that involves….pressing in deep? Either with one’s body or with weighted blankets, beanbags, weighted vests, etc. I really love weighted blankets but that fucking shit is EXPENSIVE. So stacking lots of regular blankets on top of yourself and becoming a burrito is also an option.
> 
> Also seek therapy/counseling, it is very helpful, ignore Liam’s advice, seek mental health services thanks :D I LOVE MY THERAPIST SHE IS AMAZING
> 
> Also who wants to talk about Zayn’s music video DUSK TIL DAWN and how he’s beautiful and how I love him and his nose ring but that he needs to learn to emote more because his stint as Veronica was more believable than the persona in this goddamn video


	17. _-------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lighting matches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence tw. It's not intentionally aimed towards either of them but like. Violence and shit. Aggression. Unhappy things.

“Honestly? I don’t know anymore,” Liam mutters, wanting to leave the room again.

“What, you think I want you to be broken forever? I want to—this is—” Zayn fists his hands through his hair, groaning.

“What, this is some saviour mission for you, all of a sudden? You want to fix me? You can’t fix me! This isn’t something we can fix! Not like this.” Liam tosses himself to one side, knowing that he looks dramatic. He wants to storm out, but he supposes he needs to be having this conversation, so getting it over with is likely advisable.

“What do you mean, not like this?”

“You can’t fuck my pain away! It’s—it’s borderline disrespectful of you to even suggest—”

“I’m not suggesting anything—”

“You know what, no. Fuck you altogether then, I can’t do this right now.” Liam covers his eyes with one hand.

“Your emotional highs and lows are fucking exhausting! I need some consistency!”

“I don’t know if I can do that!” Liam yells, flinging himself bodily to the side so hard he falls off the couch.

“This is ridiculous!”

“You’re ridiculous!”

“You’re the one lying on the floor having a tantrum right now!”

“I am aware of that,” Liam replies, kicking out a leg, windmilling his body about helplessly.

“You look like a starfish,” Zayn comments softly, poking his head off the couch to stare down at Liam in judgment.

“I feel like a starfish.”

“What?” This is perhaps a fair response to such a statement.

“They can grow back limbs and all that, you know? With time.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve lost, like, both arms, right now, okay? And they’re nubs, but they’re growing back, and it just, it takes time, okay?”

“This is—this is a little bit of a laboured metaphor.”

“I am well aware of that!”

Zayn narrows his eyes a bit, his face still leaning against the couch.

“What. What judgmental thing are you thinking now?”

“I was trying to imagine you with nubs for arms, but I think that’s possibly offensive.”

“That’s definitely offensive. Not to me, but to people who’ve, like, gotten amputations. And to the, uh, the babies.”

“The babies? You’ve well and truly lost me.” Zayn heaves a sigh and rolls away from Liam, curling further into the couch. He sounds put-upon, which Liam reckons is probably fair.

“The babies, you know? From the 50s.”

“Are—are you seriously talking about Thalidomide babies right now.”

“Yes, them. You picturing me like that is offensive to them. Yes.”

“They’re adults now,” Zayn responds, slowly, as if speaking to an idiotic child. “I think they can stick up for themselves in the event that I meet any of them and happen to whip out your ridiculous metaphor in a fit of absolute insensitivity.”

Liam rolls to standing, moving gracefully from the floor. He leans down close, making intense eye contact with Zayn. “Fuck you. It’s a simile.”

 

He shuts himself in the bedroom and shoves the wardrobe against the door, effectively blocking the entrance should Zayn do anything other than body-slam his way into the room. Liam doesn’t precisely doubt Zayn’s ability to manage that—sophisticated though he certainly can be—but he’s currently of a mind that they need some time apart.

At one point, Zayn knocks, trying the door handle.

“I’m upset with you!” Liam crows from the spot on the floor where he’s doing press-ups.

“What if there’s a fire?” Zayn yells back, banging once.

“I’ll climb out the window!”

“You live on the _eighth floor.”_

“There’s not going to be a fire!”

“You don’t know that. We both smoke and we’re not particularly responsible!” Zayn bangs on the door again, twice.

“Speak for yourself!”

“Now I’m upset with you!”

“I thought you already were!” Liam outright shrieks before shoving his head into his pillow so he can yell wordlessly.

Zayn bangs on the door with both fists simultaneously. “I’m even more upset now!”

“Then go the fuck home, you prick!”

“Your mental breakdown is stressing me out too much for me to leave!” It sounds like Zayn has his mouth pressed directly against the doorframe, his voice muffled but loud. “I just had a panic attack, for Christ’s sake! I need to know you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m not okay, what the fuck.” Liam leaps out of his bed, stalking towards his door, pounding on the side of the wardrobe he has leaned in. “You’re trying to replace Louis!”

“No I’m fucking not!” Zayn bangs five times on the door, knocking the wardrobe inwards about two inches.

“I don’t believe you!” Liam knocks his head against the wardrobe, effectively shutting his door again.

“You’re being a dick!”

“If you don’t leave me alone, I swear to god I’ll jump out my window.” Liam slams his open palm against the wall and dashes towards his bed, where he collapses face-first.

 

Liam immediately reaches for the pack of cigarettes by the side of his bed, only to find it empty. He sighs, reaching down to pick up the bottle of rum that generally sits beside his bed, only to find it empty as well. He growls, tossing himself out of bed, landing on his feet.

He shoves his shoulder against the wardrobe, forcing it into the wall without a passing thought. He yanks the door open, wincing slightly at the twinge in his shoulder. “Move.”

Zayn’s eyes widen. “Why?” he asks, backing up.

“I’m mad at you and I want rum, and I’ve run out in there. Otherwise I’d be—in there.” He thumbs over his shoulder, stalking towards the kitchen. He rummages in a cabinet and tosses a comment over his shoulder casually. “Obviously. As if I’d be out here with you if I had a choice.” He finds a teacup and a bottle of lukewarm Malibu, deciding that’s a heavenly match. Forgoing ice, he storms back into his room and slams the door shut.

Zayn bangs his hands against the door for a solid minute before realizing the door is neither locked nor barred. Liam is already cross-legged on his bed with a half-guzzled teacup of Malibu, for which Zayn regards him coldly.

“Should I just leave you two, then?”

“Probably.” Liam shrugs, slurping casually at his disgusting drink. Zayn heaves a sigh, leaning against the doorframe, and Liam resists throwing the bottle at him. “Look. Did—did Louis put you up to this?”

“To what.” Zayn makes grabby hands for Liam’s cup, and Liam’s pathetic enough to offer it over.

Liam retreats into the room, curling back up onto the bed. “To—care after me. To watch over me.”

Zayn’s jaw drops at the same time he smashes the teacup onto the floor with force. “Fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> GRAMMAR :D
> 
> UMMM, sorry?


	18. _--------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someone isn't me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:
> 
> continued anger and violence similar to that in the last chapter
> 
> I’M NOT TRYING TO GLORIFY VIOLENCE! I’m trying to show two people who don’t know how to use their words to get their ENDS EFFECTIVELY MET and just SPEW ANGRY SHIT because they are HURT and also they’re fairly physical in their SHOWS OF RIDICULOUS MASCULINITY SOMETIMES.
> 
> There's violence here.

“Louis didn’t put me up to jack, you fuckwit!” Zayn bends down to pick up the remnants of the teacup, only to toss two of them sort of near Liam.

His aim is a bit shit, all things considered, which makes Liam laugh bitterly. He makes a show of not ducking out of the way, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze falls to Zayn’s balled-up fist, and he sobers a bit. “Your hand’s bleeding.”

“I don’t give a shit!”

“You need medical attention.” Liam tries to move his way out of the room, his eyes glued to Zayn’s fist. He startles backwards when Zayn rears at him, looking like he wants to head-butt him, and he holds his hands up as if trying to soothe a scared animal. “How about a flannel?” he asks, trying to find a calm enough tone so that Zayn won’t bum-rush him.

“How about you bite me.” Zayn flings both hands into the air and storms away, barely managing to avoid the crushed teacup with his footsteps.

“Very mature!” Liam yells, storming out after him with a bit more attention paid to the shards on his floor.

Zayn rounds back on him, shoving Liam bodily into the wall. “Holy shit,” Liam breathes out before his voice is cut short by a forearm against his throat. He’s so surprised by the action that his shoulders slam against the wall as Zayn presses against him with his whole body. Liam winces, feeling his right shoulder twinge painfully. He drops his eyes shut and goes totally slack, not trying to force his way out of Zayn’s tight hold on him.

Liam’s body sags a little, not that he has much space to lean away from Zayn, who’s still flush with the front of his body, pushing him against the drywall. His shoulder twinges again, and he opens his eyes, gasping a bit.

He can’t look down to see if Zayn’s still bleeding, although he probably is, is probably letting it get on Liam’s arm, seeping in through his shirt. He sucks in a breath, glad he’s still able to do that, and grinds out, “You’re hurting me.”

“Me? Me, hurting you?” Zayn sneers, thrusting his pelvis forward, knocking their hips together. “It’s nice to do something new and different together, I suppose, rather than you hurting me.”

Liam clenches his jaw, shifting to the left so he can pivot out of Zayn’s grip. Part of him feels lucky that he’s bigger, big enough to maneuvor himself away, and part of him feels rage. Mostly his throat burns, and he wants to throw a punch.

Instead he turns to face Zayn, waving his hands in a welcoming motion. He smirks, raising a brow. “Come at me, then.”

While part of Liam’s brain knew what he was demanding, and while he knew tempting a wild animal was dangerous, he absolutely does not expect Zayn to full-body tackle him onto the floor of the lounge. Liam’s head knocks against the floor and he momentarily sees stars, even when he shuts his eyes. He doesn’t register the pain in his shoulder for a moment, definitely doesn’t register the harsh feeling of Zayn’s hands around his neck for a moment, until his vision flashes white-hot as his eyes open again.

He brings his hands up to shove at Zayn wherever he can reach him, mostly hitting about his shoulders until they flip, Liam landing hard on top of Zayn’s legs. He tries to trap Zayn’s arms but they’re a riot, swinging around and connecting wildly with Liam’s flesh.

Zayn’s fist connects with Liam’s cheekbone, and his nose starts to run as his eyes begin to water. “You hurt me every fucking day I look at you. Every goddamn day,” Liam sniffs, inhaling sharply. “It means we’re here, and he’s not, and it makes me want to set myself on fire.”

Zayn growls, decking Liam in the face again, trying to free his legs from beneath Liam’s body. He spits, hitting Liam’s forehead. Liam slams Zayn’s shoulders down once, hard, and scrambles away, leaving his own flat with nothing but the clothes he’s wearing.

He stays with Andy for two days, not exactly eating him out of house and home, but he has to go back to his classes eventually.

When he gets back to his flat, he finds the front door is unlocked but closed. Small mercies.

:

The guy who usually sits by him in business classes, Niall, gives him a startled look as he sits down next to Liam. “You have a black eye.”

“I’m aware,” Liam mutters, opening his laptop in order to have something more interesting to look at than Niall’s concerned face.

“Uh.”

“Please don’t ask me if I want to talk about it.”

“I was actually gonna ask if you needed anything like a bag of frozen peas. Or like a hotline number.”

“A hotline number”

Niall shrugs. “Or something.”

“I’m okay.”

Niall just blinks at him.

“It’ll heal.”

“It will,” Niall concedes, stilling looking at him owlishly.

Liam doesn’t like being considered so closely, especially not when he’s feeling vulnerable. “It’s not like that, okay?” he mutters, not even sure if he’s lying.

“I’d still ice it, yeah? May help a bit.”

“Yeah.” Liam clenches his fists hard on his thighs, willing Niall to stop looking at him, for the love of God. Willing things away has never worked well for him, though, and it’s not working for him now either. 

Niall stops staring at him once class starts, but once it’s over he offers to buy Liam a coffee or tea before they head opposite ways on the Tube.

“I, um, I’m not thirsty, actually, cheers,” Liam claims, stuffing his stuff into his beat-up knapsack before rushing out of the room.

:

When he’s not working or in class, Liam lies prostrate on his couch, nursing his black eye. Niall’s advice about icing it is solid, in that it brings down the swelling so that Liam’s vision is much better.

For his part, Niall brings Liam a pity-tea during the following class and invites him round to the pub with his mates the upcoming Friday. Liam begs off with a raised eyebrow but still offers a small smile.

:

Two weeks later—two weeks of ignoring Zayn like anything, two weeks of wanting to burn him alive—Liam runs into him at the off-license, which actually makes a lot of sense to Liam when he stops, stock-still, to stare at Zayn.

His bruised eye doesn’t sting so much lately, and it’s faded to mostly just yellow, but everything else about his countenance still feels swollen and hot, like his skin will never quite heal. 

He idly wonders if he’ll ever actually feel whole again, watching Zayn pick up a bottle of spiced rum lazily. Every movement he sees makes Liam angrier, from the casual way that Zayn grasps the bottle to the obnoxious way he slouches towards the clerk in order to pay. He becomes so overwrought that he can’t keep watching, preferring to leave the shop and collect himself outside.

Liam has one fist in his hair, yanking at it hard enough to pull it out, when he feels a gentle hand settle on his shoulder. He swats sideways, expecting to connect with—no, _wanting_ to connect with—Zayn’s head. Instead he nearly brains an unassuming Niall in the face, but Niall fortunately dodges out of the way.

“Fucking hell, mate, I almost just brained you,” Liam gasps, backing away quickly, repentant.

“You did, you almost just did,” Niall agrees, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. His hair is casual, fringe falling around his face a bit, somewhere between ash-blond and actually-brunet. It might suit him. “Hey, how about we get a coffee?”

“I don’t want any fucking coffee,” Liam spits, bending his knees so he can crouch closer to the pavement, breathing hard.

Niall sighs. “How about we get a drink?”

 

They get more than just a drink, with Liam’s mobile buzzing away in his pocket until he switches off the ringer altogether. Niall sings karaoke at one point, because Liam is too shit-canned to accompany him and is more content to eat his cheesy-chips and drink his pint. 

Liam applauds readily, nearly choking on a chip when a fit brunette approaches him.

“How’s this then?” she asks, tipping one shoulder up, quirking her mouth.

“Good?” he asks, voice tipping up at the end. He offers her the chips.

“I’m Sel,” she says, pitching her voice up over the music. “Who’s your friend?” she adds, taking three chips in one hand.

Liam smirks, finally feeling in his element.

:

He wakes up to twelve texts from Zayn, ranging from _who the fuck is he_ to _I miss you_ to _i saw you you know_

__He also wakes to find Zayn sleeping on his sofa._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhh


	19. _---------

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d rather have you up and fighting,” Liam concedes with a shrug.
> 
> “Because it’s more fun?” Zayn asks as he swings his legs over the side of the couch, sitting up.

Liam hits Zayn in the face with a pillow, but Zayn doesn’t react. “Okay, so you’re awake then,” Liam says loudly, clenching his hands into the open air, empty of the pillow, empty of anything to tighten around.

“No m’not,” Zayn mutters, frowning against the sofa cushion.

“You didn’t even flinch.”

“You’re really loud. I heard you coming.” Zayn sighs, rolling up onto one elbow. “And, even as upset with me as you probably are, you’re not really the type to sucker punch me. Not without warning.” He raises a brow at Liam, eyes looking tired.

“I’d rather have you up and fighting,” Liam concedes with a shrug.

“Because it’s more fun?” Zayn asks as he swings his legs over the side of the couch, sitting up.

“Way more fun.” Liam nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Especially if I get to chase you.”

Zayn cards his hands through his hair. It looks greasy from up-close, but Liam can see that from far away it might look bouncy, shiny and, somehow, healthy—unlike Liam himself. They’re both overdue for a haircut, but in addition to everything else they’re neglecting, neither one of them can muster up the emotional stores to visit a barber. Liam really hates Zayn’s handsome, unbruised, smug face, hates that he looks artfully disheveled rather than like a victim of domestic violence.

“You have like two stone of muscle on me and trained for the Olympics in running. How is that fair?”

“I didn’t say it was _fair,_ I said it was _more fun.”_ Liam runs his hand through his own hair self-consciously, knowing his face is still a bit mottled with bruising. “For me.”

“I can get a few good licks in.” Zayn stands, inching closer to where Liam is standing.

“When you catch me by surprise, maybe,” Liam concedes again, sucking once at his teeth.

Zayn sighs, raising one hand to ghost over Liam’s cheek. “How are you, uh, feeling?”

Liam’s nostrils flare, but he stands stock-still. “Feeling like I want to use you as a punching bag.”

Zayn snaps his hand away from Liam’s face. “Right.” He backs away to sit on the couch again.

“But like it’s also good to see you.”

“So a mixed bag all in all,” Zayn replies, one corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly.

“Yeah. More or less. I am pretty upset, but that’s par for the course lately.”

“What, with me?”

“No, I mean for—me in general. Burning up with it, like I said.” Liam moves towards Zayn, sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

“You make it sound so normal. Like this is standard relationship fare, or something.”

“Relationship?”

Zayn scoffs. “You gave me a key to your flat. We fuck on the regular. There’s some kind of relationship here, and if you fucking deny me that, I will punch you in the face.”

“Again,” Liam grinds out, clenching his right fist.

“What?”

“You’ll punch me in the face _again.”_

“Right.” Zayn narrows his eyes slowly.

“How’s your hand?”

“Good. Doc put some of those weird butterfly stitch things on it.”

“So, tape basically. They gave you medical tape.”

“Still better off’n you. Did you do anything to make that shiner any better?”

Liam considers his answer, working his mouth like the words won’t come out. “Put frozen corn on it.”

Zayn snorts, which makes Liam’s spine stiffen. “Frozen corn.”

“A friend recommended it.”

“A friend?” Zayn’s eyes go icy, and Liam’s cheeks flush as he smirks.

“’S what I said, innit?”

“And where did you get this frozen corn? Are you suddenly on a healthy-eating kick I’m not aware of?”

“I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I could’ve joined a cult and started a cleanse for all you know.” Liam’s eyes light up, just a bit.

“Surprised you didn’t shave your head and join the Peace Corps.” Zayn snorts once, exhaling out of his nostrils.

“Why the fuck would I want to join the Peace Corps?”

Zayn immediately sobers up. “Why the fuck would you—please don’t shave your head.”

“You don’t get to make demands of me,” Liam growls, moving off of the couch, pacing around the room without reason.

“Why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

Liam rolls his eyes, his muscles restless. Eventually he turns to Zayn. “What exactly are the alternatives, then?”

Zayn purses his lips and points one nicotine-stained finger towards the door, where his slouchy leather satchel sits. “I’ve got rum.”

“Our track record with rum is—what, something you want to relive? I’ll run out of teacups eventually.”

“We could redo it. Erase it?”

“Mix it with coke over ice and pretend we’re the only two people in the world?” Liam snaps, yanking the bottle out of Zayn’s bag.

“That’s a—bit sentimental, truth be told.”

“I was being sarcastic!” Liam calls heading for the kitchen.

“I’m aware!”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” Zayn follows him into the kitchen, voice and energy both very palpably angry.

“And what does, hm? Being a grieving widower and easy target?” His grasp on the bottle is deadly but firm, and nothing is going to change his mind. Not right now.

“You’re not a fucking widower.”

“So I _am_ an easy target?”

“And I’m not?” Zayn yells, slamming one hand against the wall next to the fridge, as if he has any right to complain.

Liam starts to see red, flames licking at the sides of his vision. “What did you think would happen? You’d find me at my lowest and just worm your way into the cracks in my soul? And then what?”

“And then what? What sinister motive could I possibly have? Wanting to be with you? Wanting you to be _okay?”_

The flames don’t fade as Liam tries to respond. “What part of punching me in the face is remotely helpful?”

“That—wasn’t—I’m not perfect, okay?”

“That is abundantly clear, _okay?”_

“Oh my god, I can’t even look at you right now.” Zayn storms back out of the kitchen while Liam is still mixing two giant rum and Cokes.

“You’re the one who broke into my flat, not the other way around!” he shrieks, spilling cola onto his counter. He picks up the two glasses, neither of which is particularly clean, and stalks towards Zayn in the lounge. 

He approaches just in time to year him scream.

“You gave me a key, you fucking lunatic!”

“Not with the expectation that you would physically assault me!”

“Why is that pissing you off so much? You hit me all the time!” Zayn points out, getting up into Liam’s face, nearly sloshing their drinks.

Liam takes a deep breath, setting their glasses both down on the floor. “With—with your fucking consent, usually _while_ we’re fucking! Not just of a random whim!” he eventually rages back, his voice hot in his throat. But then he pauses. “You—you do realize the difference, right?”

Zayn goes still, perhaps due to Liam’s rageful tone or maybe due to the soft one following it. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to knock over their drinks.

“Oh my god.” Liam exhales, spit catching in his throat. “I can’t just be showing up to work looking like I got in a car accident just because you’re fucking _annoyed,_ okay? I can’t have my professors looking at me like I need a fucking intervention. I deserve better.”

Zayn heaves a sigh. _“I_ deserve better.”

Liam full-on sneers at this. “As if you could find it.”

Zayn tips his head to one side, pulling a face so his teeth are on display. He looks feral, looks dangerous—looks like he might launch himself against Liam at any moment, drinks be damned. “I can’t find someone better than you?”

Liam blinks slowly, popping his lips. “We found someone better than me. We both did.” He clicks his jaw, waiting. “Both of us. Yeah? And what happened?”

“He died.”

“He died,” Liam agrees. “And what did we do?”

“We lost our fucking minds.”


	20. _ _

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, god. It’s going to be like that?”
> 
> “Like what?”
> 
> “Like you’re better than me, living on your high horse?”

Liam looks down at the drinks in his hands and immediately gulps down the entirety of the one in his right. It’s not cold enough yet, and the ice cubes hit his teeth as he chugs. He closes his eyes against the judgment he’s sure to see on Zayn’s face, almost enjoying the heat of the drink as it goes down his throat.

Once he’s done, he hands Zayn the full glass in his left. “Drink up.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but takes the glass, drinking just a small sip.

“Oh, god. It’s going to be like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re better than me, living on your high horse?”

Zayn lowers his glass, licking his lips once. He walks closer to Liam, blinking slowly. Without preamble, he throws the liquid directly into Liam’s face before promptly dropping the glass onto the floor. Liam doesn’t even have time to close his eyes, and yet his first thought as the glass hits the floor is that he needs to buy plastic drinkware, based on the way things have been going for him lately.

He immediately launches at Zayn, shoving against Zayn’s shoulders heedless of the glass on the floor, backing him against the wall.

“You fucking prick,” Liam growls, forcing Zayn’s shoulders backwards further.

“You goddamn cunt!” Zayn shouts in response, spitting a bit.

Liam laughs once, lightly, his hands tightening on Zayn’s shoulders. “Watch the way you talk to me.”

“Watch it do what? Not impact you whatsoever? Glance off your back like nothing? I fucking hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual!” Liam releases him, backing away but feeling murderous. “Okay, Christ, I need to take a breather, or it’s going to be my turn to punch _you_ in the face.” He sighs, running a hand over his face.

Zayn darts sideways, hands up in a defensive position. “I just—I didn’t mean to hit you in the face, you know. I was just—”

“Flailing. No, I know. Yeah.” He considers their situation for a moment. “So. I’m going for a run. If you want to—be here when I get back, that’s fine.” He heads into his room and changes without over-thinking it, grabbing his mobile and keys on his way out. 

He runs for nearly an hour, at varying speeds, until he’s breathless and his heart is beating a ragged rhythm against his ribcage. He’s not entirely sure if Zayn will be in his flat when he gets back, but he’s too exhausted to put much thought into it. His clothes are sticking to his body, covered as he is in sweat, and he strips off his layers as he goes up to his flat. As he steps in the front door, he removes his sweaty vest one-handed and dumps his clothes onto the floor before toeing off his shoes.

“You still here?” he calls, not sure which outcome he prefers.

“Kitchen.” When Liam walks in, he sees Zayn sitting on the counter smoking and scrolling through his phone. He lazily ashes his cigarette into the sink as he looks up at Liam. His eyes go wide and he gives Liam a long up-and-down glance, setting his mobile down on the counter.

“Got all your wiggles out, then?” Zayn asks, but his voice is rough and he’s still sizing Liam up while his cigarette ashes onto his jeans.

“If you mean I burnt through my adrenaline, then yes.”

“Got all sweaty.” Zayn purses his lips, inhaling sharply.

“You’re really bad at being coy, or whatever it is you’re doing right now.” Liam runs one hand through his sweaty hair, watching Zayn watch him. “I’m kind of a sure thing, you know.”

“Since _when?”_ Zayn screeches, vaulting off the counter and landing directly in front of Liam.

“You said yourself I’m an easy target, after all.”

_“You_ said you were an easy target and I was so incensed by your self-delusion that I didn’t know how to argue with you.” Zayn pokes Liam’s chest with one finger, not particularly hard but hard enough to be annoying.

“You argue with me all the time!” Liam points out, backing up, away from Zayn’s angry hands.

“Well it’s a lot harder when you’re being especially pathetic!”

“Stop calling me pathetic! I know why you’re doing it!” Liam’s shoulders tense, and he notices Zayn’s eyes shutter a bit.

“Which is why, pray tell?” he responds, voice icy.

“Really? You wanna know? You really wanna know?”

“I wanna know what deluded conclusion you’ve come to, yeah. Lay it on me.” Zayn spreads his arms wide, pretending to be inviting.

Liam sighs, moving out of Zayn’s range of motion entirely. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the counter, which feels cold against his hip. “You do it because you’re trying to make yourself feel better or something super shitty like that. And you hate how much you actually need me or like me, maybe? And that makes you really angry, which sort of—feeds back into it, I guess. Also I’m pretty sure you’re way too emotionally stunted to actually process that in any meaningful capacity.” The sweat on his body is cooling, and he starts to get gooseflesh on his forearms, but he stares resolutely at Zayn rather than acknowledge it.

Zayn purses his lips, brows furrowing. “That was—fucking insightful, mate.”

Liam scoffs. “Well, I’m more than just a warm body and decent eyecandy, yeah? So fucking act like it.” He shoves himself away from the counter and walks down the corridor to the bathroom, starting the shower and locking the door.

He takes an unnecessarily long shower, partly to let Zayn stew and partly because his muscles have started to knot up, but he has to exit eventually.

The flat’s empty when he emerges, but this time the front door is locked.

:

This time, Zayn doesn’t avoid him for long. He’s waiting outside the front of Liam’s flat with a cardboard cup of tea for himself and a cardboard cup of strong coffee for Liam, handing the coffee over wordlessly.

“Alright?” Liam asks before taking a sip. He shoves his left hand into the pocket of his coat, finding a crumpled up receipt at the bottom.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna come up?” he says next, looking at anywhere but Zayn, alternately scuffing his Tims against the pavement.

“Wasn’t sure if I—could.”

“You can.” 

“Well, wasn’t sure if I _should,_ like.”

“Showing self-restraint? That’s a new one,” Liam quips, quick as anything, shooting Zayn a small smirk.

Zayn rolls his eyes, the line of his posture relaxing a little. “You’ve used that line on me before, you know.”

“I have? Huh. How about that.” Liam takes another sip of his coffee and opens the front door to his building. He looks over his shoulder expectantly. “Well? Come on.”

Zayn leers. “Come on what?”

Liam almost rolls his eyes at the lazy double entendre, but he’s not indulging it. Instead, he holds Zayn’s gaze and pauses for a beat. “Come on _now.”_

Zayn reacts immediately, falling in line behind Liam as they go up to Liam’s flat. The lift is working once again, which he’s relieved to see. He was glad of the extra exercise for the few days the lift was out of order, sort of, as it offered a way for him to naturally include more working out into his life. But doing any kind of a big shop before climbing eight flights of stairs is inhumane, Liam’s pretty sure, so he avoided leafy greens and actual healthful foods. He’s not entirely into self-punishment, and carrying heavy bags home is hard enough with a working lift. He’s not about to carve lasting grooves into his hands or wrists from the plastic handles of a carryall bag, just in the name of a grocery-shop.

His priorities are fairly clear, lately, even to himself.

Liam presses the key to the eighth floor, watching Zayn watch him. He takes a long pull from his coffee, realizing slowly that Zayn correctly created his preferred mix of cream and sugar. “Cheers for the coffee, by the way.”

“No worries.” Zayn shrugs, casting his eyes up to the screen as it ticks off their changing floors.

They head towards Liam’s in silence once the lift doors open. One question itches at Liam’s throat as they walk in silence—awkward silence—to his flat. After he slams the door and takes off his Tims, he can’t hold it in anymore. “What are you doing here?”

Zayn slips his coat off one arm at a time, switching his tea from hand to hand. Eventually, he stammers out, “I think that, maybe, you have at least, possibly, a—”

“Seriously, cut the shit,” Liam demands, setting his coffee down on the bookcase by his door. Sometimes he drops his mail on the top when he gets anything worth saving, but mostly it holds his shoes.

“You might have a point.” Zayn pivots on one foot, his voice dying. He takes out a pack of cigarettes, but with the tea in his one hand and the pack in the other, he fumbles as he takes out just one cigarette.

Liam watches his put it in the corner of his mouth, considering a response. “Oh?”

“About—the emotional fuckery.” Zayn shoves the pack into his pocket again, fishing out a lighter.

“Right. Good. I like being right.”

“Mhm, cherish that. It happens so rarely.” Zayn snorts, lighting the cigarette with practised ease, but then he grimaces before taking a puff. “Sorry. It’s kind of an innate response at this point.”

“Being a dick to me is in—yeah, never mind. Let’s just—” He searches his mind for something normal, neutral. “Let’s just watch a film.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment and critique please!  
> xx


	21. _ _ -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you were church, I'd get on my knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyoooooooo and hello everyone. I am here. I love you. I am a mess.

They barely pay attention to the film, which is typical of them at the worst and best of times, too busy pawing at one another’s dicks, even though they both love the Marvel franchise. “We’re gonna need to start this over at this rate,” Liam mutters, mouthing against Zayn’s jaw, biting down hard enough to bruise.

“This is the third time we’ve tried to watch it. Might as well give it up for a lost cause _at this rate.”_ Zayn moves, shoving at Liam’s shoulders so he’s flat on his back and Zayn can wrap himself around Liam’s hips.

“We’re a mess, we are,” Liam agrees, snaking a hand up Zayn’s back, inside his shirt. He traces his fingers along Zayn’s spine, feeling each bump and ridge. “Hey. Have you eaten today?”

“How many cigarettes have you smoked today?” Zayn counters, flicking Liam in the nose once before arching down to lathe a sloppy kiss onto Liam’s neck.

“You don’t get to lecture me about something I’ve lectured you about, just because you’re annoyed.”

Zayn sighs, breathing against the bite-mark he placed onto Liam’s skin. “Yes. I do. I get to do whatever I want.” Zayn sits up, tweaking a bit of skin low on Liam’s hip. “Whether or not I’m annoyed.”

Liam bucks his hips, nearly dislodging Zayn. “That’s not how it works.”

Zayn catches himself, placing his hands on Liam’s shoulders and slowly narrowing his eyes before moving his hands lightly around Liam’s neck.

“You have the body weight of a prepubescent girl and the bicep strength of a corgi.” Liam smirks, kicking again so that Zayn does fall off his lap. He outright laughs as he hears Zayn hit the ground, which is decidedly a dick move, but one he’s not ashamed of.

He rolls over to face the screen, ignoring the sounds of Zayn scrambling on the floor. What he can’t ignore, however, is an elbow to his belly as Zayn climbs back on top of him. “Rude,” Zayn murmurs, settling tip-to-toe on top of Liam.

It’s comforting in a way Liam hasn’t really felt in a while, and he’s tempted to toss Zayn back off him, but instead he settles in to the watch the film, curling one arm around Zayn’s waist.

:

Liam wakes up near dawn, body aching a bit from the fact that Zayn is entirely on top of him and cutting of circulation to one of his arms. He turns off the DVD and moves so that Zayn is between his body and the back of the sofa. His eyes feel so gritty he falls back asleep nearly immediately.

:

He still manages to wake up before Zayn with light streaming into the room. He sighs, gently extricating himself from Zayn’s strangely intense embrace. He heads to the kitchen, hoping he still has beer in the fridge and a pack of cigarettes worth more than one or two. He finds both before setting out to make breakfast in the form of an omelette, smoking while he does so.

He eats half the omelette and leaves the rest on the counter, moving towards the bathroom so he can start the shower. He sets the half-full pack of cigarettes by the sink, sitting down on the toilet lid while the water heats up. He bites at the cuticle of his left thumb before grabbing his five-razor shaver. He sets it against his wrist, holding it there for a few moments. Eventually he drops it, kicking it beside the toilet.

His shower scalds him.

:

Liam heads into his bedroom, donning just a pair of tattered trackies before climbing into bed. He’ll let Zayn fend for himself.

:

He wakes up to find Zayn curled beside him, and he’s annoyed but not remotely surprised. Zayn’s head is nestled onto his tattoo of Morrigan, and Liam almost hates that he brings out his phone to take a picture of it.

But he does it, and he doesn’t hate it.

He pets at Zayn’s skin until he wakes up, and he likes the way that Zayn slowly smiles.

:

They eventually get food, with the half-omelette having gone off in the kitchen. They head to a shite diner that has mini-jukeboxes on each table, and Liam keeps feeding in coins while Zayn nurses a cup of coffee.

“Get on my level,” Liam mutters, pressing the numbers for _Build Me Up Buttercup._

“Never.”

Liam works his jaw and sighs. “Not okay.”

“Okay, fuck—fine.” Zayn shoves away his coffee. “I was—would you—the thing is—” He makes a face.

Liam purses his lips. “Go. Just go for it.”

“Could we try, like. Not using condoms.”

Liam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You got nervous asking me to raw you?” He snorts.

Zayn’s jaw drops. “Or me you!”

“Yeah? And is that how you pictured it, in this dreamwolrd of yours? When we’re skin to skin, how did you—”

“Fine.” Zayn looks murderous, which isn’t a new look for him, but Liam rather likes it. “I figured I’d, like. Ride you.”

“Suppose we gotta get tested, then.”

:

They both test negative for everything but Zayn notes that he gets the periodic cold sore, and the pronouncement makes Liam roll his eyes.

“You have an outbreak now, then?” he asks, running his tongue over his top teeth.

“No.”

“Then I think you oughta stop being a fucking pussy, at this rate, so I can fuck you like you deserve.” Zayn’s eyes darken and flash in a way Liam thought really only existed in superhero films. He turns his lips up into a smirk, watching Zayn flutter his eyelashes down. “Yeah?” Liam licks his lips. “You gonna let me finger you open, huh? So I can raw you?” Zayn’s eyelashes stay down, and his cheeks pink up just a bit.

Liam takes that as a cue, which perhaps he shouldn’t, but he moves one finger slowly down, tracing against Zayn’s hip. He moves that towards Zayn’s arse, which is bare for the first time all day, given that they’ve only gotten their results back.

“Fuck you,” Zayn whispers, his eyes still downcast, his stance still submissive.

“So pretty for me, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you again.”

Liam doesn’t say anything, just keeps petting at Zayn’s skin, his arse not as tanned as the skin of his torso. “You’re pretty for me,” Liam insists, moving his hand against Zayn’s cleft, opening his up to the air just slightly. “Open up for me, now,” he requests, with the hint of a demand.

Zayn sighs, parting his legs and throwing his head back. “Why should I?”

“Because I can make you feel good.” Liam fingers against Zayn’s rim, dry. Zayn whines, bucking his head backwards. Liam smiles, moving his head down so he can spat at Zayn’s hole. Zayn fucking _keens_ at that, eyes clamped shut. Liam rubs his fingers against the slick of his own spit, waiting to open Zayn up until his fingers are warm and wet.

He runs one fingertip around Zayn’s rim, scrabbling with his other hand to find the lube. Zayn whines again, clenching his jaw. His eyes are still shut, and Liam smiles a bit to himself. Liam coats his fingers and inserts one without pretense or warning, enjoying the way that Zayn keeps keening into the air of the room.

Liam inserts another finger, aligning it beside the first, fucking into Zayn gently. “You’re alright, babe,” he murmurs, kissing against Zayn’s thigh.

“I fucking know that, you dick,” Zayn snaps, slapping at Liam’s head. “Don’t coddle me.”

Liam snickers, inserting another finger immediately. Zayn winces, hissing out a breath. “You’re alright, babe,” Liam repeats, patronising and caustic. He picks up speed with his hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn exhales, “I know I am.”

In the end, Zayn comes before Liam can even fuck him properly—just the tip of his cock is planted inside—but they’re both breathless and almost weepy with it. They melt into one another, skin pressed together, hot with sweat and every kind of warmth.

Liam takes Zayn at his word, finishing inside him in a white-hot mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr (sort of?): littlebint
> 
> Build Me Up Buttercup is my karaoke JAMMMMMM

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and critique
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


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